


Harry Potter and the Center of the Maze

by sunmoonandstars



Series: Sarcasm and Slytherin [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dumbledore Bashing, F/F, F/M, Goblet of Fire (rewrite), Gray Harry, Gray Harry Potter, Grey Harry, Grey Harry Potter, Harry is not the boy who lived, James Potter Bashing, M/M, Or Is he?, Ron Weasley Bashing, Slytherin Harry, Slytherin Harry Potter, Slytherin Politics, Snape's still a dick but getting less so, Triwizard Tournament, WBWL, i'll put more if i think of them, other people don't think it's him anyway, we don't know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-04-14 15:59:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 215,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14139486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunmoonandstars/pseuds/sunmoonandstars
Summary: It is Harry Potter's fourth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. With international politics, someone out to kill Jules Potter, the Boy Who Lived, and Slytherin House's internal drama, this year seems pretty standard.Admittedly, the last time there was a dragon anywhere near Hogwarts, it fit in Hagrid's hut and didn't pose much of a danger to anyone. Who thought the Triwizard Tournament was appropriate for teenagers?





	1. Trial and Error

“Enter the defendant.”

Harry’s hands felt like claws on the edge of the uncomfortable wooden bench.

The heavy oak door at the entrance of the courtroom creaked open slowly, and in walked Albus Dumbledore.

“Look at that smug bastard,” Theo hissed from Harry’s left. Harry would’ve reprimanded him if the noise in the audience section of seats wasn’t loud enough to cover it and if he had enough self-possession left to care. “Just waltzing on in here like he’s convinced he’ll get off…”

On Harry’s other side, Pansy wrenched his hand off the edge of the bench and clutched it in her own. Harry tried not to hang on too hard. He wished Sirius could be up here instead of sitting at a table off to one side along with Roger Morris, his lawyer, and the other witnesses who would speak against Dumbledore.

“Let’s begin,” said Acting Chief Warlock Aiden Sullivan, Hufflepuff, from the center of the front Wizengamot bench. Harry, Theo, Pansy, and Neville had managed to snag seats along one side of the circular dungeon, chaperoned by Lord Parkinson, who sat on Theo’s other side. Harry knew Daphne was here somewhere with her parents and Pansy’s grandmother was up in the Wizengamot seats along with Lady Longbottom, Lord Nott, Lord Malfoy, and the Greengrass and Potter proxies. James would’ve had to find someone else to stand in as his proxy on the Wizengamot since Thorne was representing Dumbledore in the trial, and that the Weasley and Prewett seats would have proxy voters since normally Molly and Arthur Weasley used Dumbledore as their proxy. Since Dumbledore was the accused, his seat wouldn’t get a proxy.

Dumbledore eyed the chair in the middle of the courtroom. Harry really wanted to see him sitting it in with the chains wrapped around him. “Is this really necessary, Aiden?” he said genially.

“The chains have been deactivated,” Sullivan said coldly. Harry wondered absently if Finn were here somewhere.

“Well, in that case,” Dumbledore said, sitting smartly in the heavy prisoner’s chair.

“Damn,” Neville muttered from the other side of Pansy.

Sullivan flicks through his scroll. “You stand accused of malfeasance of office on the grossest level, of willful misconduct that flouted the highest orders of your office. Is there anything you’d like to state for the record before we begin?”

“Well, I believe, technically, that I do not _stand_ accused, as I’m currently seated in this lovely chair,” Dumbledore said.

“Can I kill him,” Theo muttered. Harry tried not to smirk and looked over the Wizengamot.

“Nothing useful, then,” a grizzled, lion-like wizard muttered, his voice carrying. A vaguely familiar witch next to him shushed him, looking amused.

Madam Bones, seated to Sullivan’s left, looked positively bloodthirsty. Most of them looked at least irritated by Dumbledore’s little quip—good. That was good. Harry could tell most of the family seat holders were ready to convict before the evidence even came forward, but it looked a lot less certain among the elected members, and there were twenty-nine of them to twenty-four inherited seats. A fifty percent vote would be needed for any conviction. Harry bit his lip, then caught the nervous gesture and schooled his expression back to impassivity. A minor slip, true, but still one he wouldn’t be able to afford going forward in this life he was carving for himself.

Sirius caught his eye from down in the witness section, and tried a wan smile. Harry returned a similarly effortful grin. Sirius hadn’t been given leave by the mind healers to go anywhere but his family home and St. Mungo’s and Tate had told them both in no uncertain terms that Sirius was not to put a toe past the healers’ orders so he wouldn’t jeopardize their court chances. She was terrifying enough that even Sirius managed to curb his rule-scorning nature and listen. That meant Harry hadn’t gotten to see his godfather since school let out. They’d written, of course, enough that Alekta was getting lots of exercise.

Then Harry’s eyes skipped sideways at Ethan Thorne, sitting smugly at the table to the left of Tate, Sirius, and the other witnesses, and his grip on the bench and Pansy tightened.

“Ease up, Potter,” she hissed.

He relaxed his grip immediately.

Thorne happened to look up and meet Harry’s eyes. Blue eyes, blond hair, square jaw, tanned skin. Not especially handsome but he had the kind of rugged sun-kissed charisma that Pansy said landed him in _Witch Weekly_ at least once a year. His face was impassive. Unusual in a Gryffindor. Harry resisted the urge to glare.

Sullivan finished shuffling his papers. “It seems we ought to move on to the presentation of the evidence. Ms. Vanessa Tate, if you would.”

Tate stood up; her predatory smile had been replaced by a hard one that gave nothing away. A lawyer mask. Harry almost clinically catalogued the differences between a lawyer’s mask and the politician’s he was most familiar with. “Acting Chief Warlock, honored members of the Wizengamot, today I bring before you the case of one Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. This man has long been a venerated member of our society for services rendered in his youth—services rendered to thousands of magical people across Europe who will be eternally grateful for his bravery.”

“Why’s she talking him up?” Neville hissed.

Pansy shushed him, watching fascinatedly. Harry was smirking, mostly back under control now; it was always fun to see a master at work.

“However.” Tate paused her slow pacing, fixing a rather severe look on the Wizengamot. Many of them looked intimidated; Sullivan just tilted his head like she was a particularly interesting grafted fruit tree. “We cannot allow his revered past to blind us to the horrors he’s committed in the present. I refer, of course, to the abuse of power that resulted in an innocent man spending twelve years in arguably the closest approximation to Hell that we have been able to create with all our magic and might. Against all the odds, Sirius Black survived what no one else has managed to endure. His skill with Occlumency and his desire for justice served to shield him from the worst effects of the dementors. The Mind Healers of St. Mungo’s have approved him to stand before you today, so I will step aside and let the man himself present his testimony.”

“She’s good,” Pansy muttered.

Pansy’s father sent an arch look in Harry’s direction. “You certainly could have chosen worse in a legal representative, Mr. Potter.”

“Thank you, Lord Parkinson,” he said politely, not taking his eyes off Ethan Thorne.

“Mm.”

Harry switched his attention to Sirius as he rose to his feet. They’d had to walk a careful line with how he should carry himself: too strongly, and people would whisper that even an Occlumens couldn’t have made it out of Azkaban that unaffected, that he had some Dark Arts tricks, would start to believe James’ little stories. Harry suspected James’ stories were _true_ , of course, but you didn’t go three years in Slytherin and friends with Theo and Daphne without picking up on magic that would land you a minimum of five years in Azkaban so Harry wasn’t exactly in a position to care what kind of spells Sirius cast in a _war_. Didn’t mean other people wouldn’t care. They couldn’t fuel those rumors. Too weak, though, and it would be all too easy for them to say he was too weak and damaged for his testimony to count for anything.

Sirius seemed to be walking the line pretty well. Harry had heard in two separate letters, one from Tate and one from Sirius, complaining about the time she’d spent convincing him to learn his part while he grumbled about having to sneak around. Harry hadn’t been sure about letting the very Slytherin Tate loose on his very Gryffindor godfather, but it seemed to have worked out. More or less.

“Thank you, Ms. Tate,” Sirius said. There was still a rasp to his voice, a roughness born of years of lots of screaming, not much talking, dehydration, and malnutrition. “Members of the Wizengamot, thank you for hearing me today.”

“It is our duty to uphold the laws of our society,” someone in the second row of Wizengamot benches called. Harry knew he wasn’t imagining how many of them looked at Dumbledore as those words were spoken. Or the slight tension in Dumbledore’s shoulders. Harry relished every second of it.

“Lord Black,” Sullivan said with a nod. “It is a pleasure to see you well. I hear from the mind healers that you’ve been cleared to take your family’s seat on the Wizengamot once this business is done.”

Pansy was nodding slightly. Harry approved as well—Sullivan was making it clear the mind healers approved Sirius for a higher-stakes position than testifying at a trial. He’d have to look Sullivan up later, see where the man’s allegiances lay. Clearly not with Dumbledore.

“I have,” Sirius said.

There were some shufflings of movement—either pleased to see Sirius or irritated. Harry knew plenty of people would be caught between Sirius’ Gryffindor affiliation and war loyalties and the history of the family seat he was taking. Not to mention the angle James had taken in a Prophet interview denouncing Sirius as a dangerous, unstable loon.

“Excellent news.” Sullivan looked at Tate. “If you could begin the presentation of evidence, Ms. Tate.”

“Indeed, sir. Lord Black, do you freely and of your own will consent to answer my questions honestly?”

“I do.”

“Pity they can’t use Veritaserum,” Theo muttered.

“I’d rather he be an Occlumens, all things considered,” Harry said snidely. Theo kicked his ankle. Harry elbowed him.

Tate picked up a scroll while Sirius stood rigidly at attention, hands clasped behind his back. They faced off in the center of the chamber. Harry felt like he could draw his wand and use a cutting curse on the tension in the air. Even the visitors’ section, which Theo had told him was notoriously rowdy and anarchic, had fallen almost completely silent.

“Were you responsible for the death of Lily Evans Potter?”

Even from here, three tiers up and probably fifteen feet above the floor of the chamber, Harry could see Sirius swallow. “Indirectly,” he said. “It was my idea to change the Secret Keeper for the Godric’s Hollow house from myself to Peter Pettigrew.”

“Why did you recommend this course of action?”

“Because… Peter… he always had the weakest magical core of any of us,” Sirius said. “Clever with charms and runes, but he just didn’t have the magical ability to last in a duel. He was dangerous—but not on a battlefield. We all knew they’d expect it to be me.”

“By ‘they’ I assume you mean the Death Eaters,” Tate said.

Sirius nodded. “Yes. It was supposed to be a diversion. I’d take all the heat, Peter would keep doing what he was doing behind the scenes for—for our side…” He took a deep breath. “The night of Samhain—sorry, Halloween—I was doing the Samhain rites while James went to that meeting and Lily stayed home.”

Harry made a note to ask Theo later why that caused such a stir among the Wizengamot. A subtle stir, to be fair; no one person was obviously surprised from where he sat, but there was a sudden, slight increase in tension.

“You follow the old ways?” someone asked. Harry squinted—did they keep the Wizengamot seats shadowy on purpose?

Sirius looked up at them. “I do, yes.”

“I do not see why my client’s preferences regarding the old rites are relevant,” Tate said icily.

 _Old rites._ Harry wondered what that was. And why no one had brought it up with him. He’d thought he was doing well with wizarding culture, and surely if it was relevant Matteo would’ve schooled him and Justin on it the year before, or someone would’ve mentioned it in the common room. But clearly it was relevant enough that a Wizengamot member brought it up.

Sullivan scowled over his shoulder. “You are correct. We’ll leave such inquiries out of this trial. Continue, Lord Black.”

“The rites… James doesn’t practice them. Lily was at home with the boys. I’d already missed most of the meeting that night so I just went back to Godric’s Hollow to get dinner and wait for James—I’d been helping the Potters look after the boys, bringing them news and such, almost every day, James was going a bit batty cooped up in the property… but when I arrived the house was just a shell of itself.”

He had to stop then, throat working, eyes closed.

“If this is too much—” Madam Bones began, but Sirius shook his head, visibly recollecting himself.

“No, I can—I’m okay.” He lifted his chin. “The house was a mess. I started running as soon as I saw it, up the street and in the front door—all the glass was shattered, furniture knocked over, pictures on the ground. Had my wand out by that point, of course. I bolted up the stairs and into the nursery.”

“How Gryffindor,” Pansy muttered. Harry had to agree with her. Running headlong into danger like that—honestly. Neville obviously objected; Harry felt Pansy jolt as he either shoved or elbowed her from the other side.

“Lily was—” Sirius paused for a second. “She was lying on the ground… Both boys were screaming. Blood on their faces. I knew what James and Lily would want, I went to the boys first—they seemed all right except for the small wounds, no diagnostic charm turned anything up, so I checked Lily. She was dead.

“I was Harry’s godfather—am now again—and Peter had clearly betrayed us, and James wasn’t home yet, so I knew it was my job to get them both to safety. I put light drowsiness charms on both boys and wrapped them up. The house clearly wasn’t safe. But when I got outside, Rubeus Hagrid was just arriving—Dumbledore and James had sent him to retrieve both children. I argued—but I… trusted… you.” This last was snarled in Dumbledore’s general direction. For just a second, Harry thought Sirius might transform right there and rip the old coot’s throat out, which would be satisfying to watch but lead to all kinds of problems. Not least of which, a murder count. Harry cared about his godfather as a person by this point but he also really wanted him alive and with a clear name because if he wasn’t Harry didn’t have a good legal alternative to the Dursleys.

But Sirius controlled himself, and Harry got the slightly lesser satisfaction of seeing Dumbledore look actually unnerved for about half a second.

“Hagrid took both boys,” Sirius said, looking from Dumbledore back up at the Wizengamot with what looked like an effort. Harry followed his gaze, trying to gauge their response to his story. The entire room was silent and hanging on Sirius’ every word. “I assume they went to Dumbledore and James, and that was when they found the curse residue in Jules’ scar, and the decision was made to—to leave my godson with his Muggle aunt. I took off after Peter once they were safely on the way to someone I trusted.” He laughed bitterly. “Or at least, once I _thought_ so. Clearly I was wrong.

“It took me two days to track down the rat. I cornered him in a Muggle street, he turned back into human form, and I lost my temper a bit—started yelling at him. He talked right over me, yelled for the whole street to hear that I’d killed Lily and James, and blew up the street from behind his back with his wand. I’m surprised he had enough power to change forms after a spell that big but he did—cut off one finger, which you’ve somehow interpreted as proof of death, and then disappeared into the drainage system as a rat. I was conscious but couldn’t move. By the time the Aurors showed up, my grief and failure had hit me, I was in shock, I didn’t resist. Wasn’t until hours later in a Ministry holding cell that I snapped out of it and realized something was wrong. Started shouting for James, Dumbledore, Veritaserum, anything, until I realized my guards had the glazed eyes of the badly Imperiused.”

Harry’s eyes widened. He had not heard this part of the story, and reluctantly found himself nearly as entranced as most everyone else in the room. Badly Imperiused—so someone working for Dumbledore had used an Unforgivable. Harry figured he really shouldn’t be as surprised as he was at this point.

“None among the Light would use that deplorable curse!” a wizard from the top tier of the Wizengamot howled. Half the visitor’s section had erupted in shouting, loud conversation, disbelief.

A _bang_ from Sullivan’s wand made Harry jump about an inch off the bench. _“Silence!”_ he roared into the following pause. “There will be order in this courtroom or I will close it to the public entirely!”

Harry thought grimly that he’d Imperius every person in the visitor’s section into silence himself before he let that happen. He was not leaving. He was going to see this through.

Luckily, it seemed like he wouldn’t need to resort to drastic measures. People got hold of themselves and sat back down.

“Go on, please, Lord Black,” Tate said, upon receiving a nod from Sullivan.

Sirius’ hands gripped more tightly behind his back. Harry expected he’d be nervous as hell, down there on the floor of such a tense courtroom, and wandless. “James never came to visit me. I never got a trial. I overheard people talking—one voice I recognized as Barty Crouch Senior, one unfamiliar—about how I wasn’t getting a trial, Dumbledore was handling the Wizengamot and Crouch was just to quietly pack me away. He came in and got all high-and-mighty with me about how this was—this was what came of crossing the wrong people—he seemed to get a kick out of gloating a bit, actually, he let slip more than he probably meant to. James Potter knew I wasn’t getting a trial, for one thing. Dumbledore was pushing this, for another. And that I was no longer legally tied to the Potters in any way. They carted me off to Azkaban a day later.”

A stunned silence followed his story.

“No way,” Harry heard someone hiss. “Dumbledore would never.”

With that, the floodgates broke.

“Or he had reason. You saw the Prophet, Potter was Black’s best friend and _he_ said Black’s dangerous—”

“Well, dangerous or not, he deserved a trial—”

“—locked him up for a crime he didn’t—”

“Silence!” Sullivan repeated, though this time without the bang, and the visitor’s section settled again.

Pansy kicked his ankle. “Harry, I can’t feel my fingers.”

He tried to let go of her hand.

“No, I’ll not have you damaging the bench,” she said. “Just try not to break my hand.”

Harry let a bit of his guilt show on his face, since he hated apologies in general. Fortunately his friends had figured this out by now and Pansy responded to his look with a reassuring squeeze.

“We’re here for you,” Theo said quietly.

Lord Parkinson shifted slightly.

“How did you survive twelve years in Azkaban without going mad?” Tate said.

“I am an Occlumens,” Sirius said baldly. A ripple ran through the public at that point. Harry held his frown in but wished they would quit acting like the mind arts were somehow Dark or dangerous. He’d been doing Occlumency since second year and he knew enough about Legilimency to know it was just another skill, albeit a powerful one, and difficult to learn.

Powerful. Dangerous. Harry knew most of the supposedly Dark magic he’d learned involved spells more powerful than their curriculum but otherwise not fundamentally different—he should, he’d read ahead through sixth year even if some of that level of practical work still evaded him—and a good chunk of it didn’t involve dueling or offensive magic.

He set that train of thought aside to work on later and refocused.

“Understood,” was Sullivan’s only response.

“And how did you escape?”

Sirius, to his credit, didn’t flinch. Harry caught himself before he went back to squeezing the life out of Pansy’s hand. This was the complicated part. An extremely terse letter from Ethan Thorne had informed Tate that the illegal animagery business would be kept quiet if both parties agreed to an unofficial secrecy arrangement. Harry remembered grinning wide enough when he got that letter for the twins to come ask him what was going on. The problem, of course, was finding a plausible alternate explanation.

It really was lucky that no one had ever escaped Azkaban before. There was no precedent. He’d sent off responses to Tate and Sirius with a few ideas, and between the three of them they’d concocted a story Harry really hoped would stand up to the trial.

“I starved myself,” Sirius said. “Until I had barely any strength left on by body. I had little to begin with after twelve years, it didn’t take long before I could wedge myself through the bars if I was willing to put up with a fair bit of pain. The dementors… sometimes they get distracted. Some people hold on to certain happy memories longer than others, and when they give one up… all the monsters get excited and go to share the cake.” His voice echoed with a toxic sludge of fear, disgust, and hatred. “I waited until that happened. They’d already taken most of what they could from me. Remembering that I was innocent, that I’d been put there by people I trusted, that my godson and his brother were growing up without me—none of those things was a happy one to remember. Dementors couldn’t touch those.

“Once I was out, I swam back to the mainland.” He shuddered. “Still don’t know how I survived, so don’t ask. It was probably some form of accidental magic born of desperation. Then… I traveled north, stole food from Muggle homes when I had to. Until I reached Hogwarts. The wards knew I meant no harm to anyone who belonged to the school, so they weren’t a problem. I lived in the forest and used the secret passages to sneak in. Trying to get to Pettigrew. I had Kiss on sight status, couldn’t trust anyone to listen long enough if I revealed myself.”

“None of your old friends? No family members?” Tate said. This was also important. They had to establish how alone Sirius had been. This testimony would be all over Britain within a day. Dumbledore’s trial was every bit as talked about as Sirius’ pardon, and the pardon had been a private affair granted by Madam Bones. This had an audience, transcripts, reporters, _coverage_. It was their best chance to get Sirius’ story heard and deal a blow to Dumbledore and James’ public image.

Sirius glared at the table where James and Thorne sat, the former furious and the latter placid. “James was complicit. He _knew_ I wasn’t the Secret Keeper. He knew, and he let it happen to me anyway. I never knew if Remus—Lupin—was involved or just fell for the lie. Either way, he never cared enough to try and see me while the Ministry held me. Crouch gloated that no one had come, and the man was a lot of things but _liar_ wasn’t one of them. Lily Potter is dead. My cousins Andromeda Tonks and Narcissa Malfoy estranged, for different reasons. I had nowhere to turn.”

Tate turned to Sullivan. “Those are all the questions I have for Lord Black. He has agreed to answer any further questions from the Wizengamot relevant to the topic at hand.”

“Thank you, Ms. Tate,” Sullivan said gravely. “If anyone would like to ask questions?”

Harry watched closely. Adults he didn’t know, but whose names Pansy or Theo murmured in his ear that he filed away for later research, asked Sirius more questions about his time in the Ministry holding cells, Azkaban, the dementors, how well he remembered what had come before being imprisoned, and how he knew about Pettigrew’s animagery. The last was neatly dodged by simply saying that Peter knew Sirius was better with potions and rule-breaking than Lupin and James was busy with his wife, so he went to Sirius for help brewing the animagus potion. No one asked whether anyone else had partaken of the potion when Sirius made it.

Finally, Sirius finished talking and no one fired another question. Sullivan sent him back to his seat and Harry let out a breath.

“That’s the hard part, right?” Pansy muttered.

Harry nodded. “The rest of our evidence… superficial, at least in comparison.”

Tate hauled up a renowned Charms master to testify that the Fidelius Charm was immensely complicated and it was extremely unlikely that anyone as young and unstudied as James and Lily Potter could have cast it. Remus Lupin very heavily admitted that he _had_ known Dumbledore cast the Charm, although Harry noticed disgust sweeping through the courtroom when he stood up, and understand why Lupin left as soon as his testimony was over. Harry felt an unusual surge of pity for the man. Wasn’t his fault a psychotic sadist infected him with a vicious curse as a child. Of course, Lupin’s cowardice and unwillingness to think for himself were personal failings, and Harry could and did judge him for those.

An archivist produced documents showing the allocation of space and meals for prisoners in the cells during the last war and said under Veritaserum that he’d found extremely subtle signs of magical tampering on the records of the days Sirius was locked in the Ministry. He also said that an extensive search done over the last year after three separate requests, one from a Ministry employee, for Sirius’ trial scripts had alerted the archives that said scripts had never existed in the first place. The man left, blinking hard, after the Veritaserum antidote was administered, and Tate finally reminded the Wizengamot that Peter Pettigrew had confessed to two adult wizards and four minors, all of which had been corroborated in memory, and been seen alive by multiple Ministry officials, where his babbling effectively confirmed the story.

 “If I could have a moment with my client?” Thorne said.

“I don’t like him,” Pansy said.

Neville nodded. “He _sounds_ slimy.”

“Bet his Patronus would be a slug,” Theo said.

“Children.”

They all shut up at the tone of Lord Parkinson’s voice.

Harry eyed Thorne as Sullivan granted his request. The members of the Wizengamot bent their heads to their desks or murmured to each other. Dumbledore rose from his chair and turned away from Sullivan slightly; he and Thorne conversed in low voices. What Harry could see of Thorne’s face showed slight irritation. Good.

Thorne finally stepped back smartly and nodded to Sullivan.

“If you’ve finished,” Sullivan said, voice dry, “Mr. Thorne, you may begin.”

Harry narrowed his eyes at Thorne. _Let’s see if Tate and I guessed right how you’ll play this._

“Witches and wizards of the Wizengamot,” Thorne said with a amile. “It is my honor to stand before you today representing one of the greatest wizards of our history, Albus Dumbledore.”

“We don’t care about your honors,” someone shouted.

Sullivan didn’t even look up. “I will cast a Silencing Charm on the entire visitor’s section if that happens one more time,” he said. “Mr. Thorne, if you will.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sullivan,” Thorne said. “As I was saying… Albus Dumbledore has long occupied some of the highest positions in our government, and performed his various duties, upheld his numerous and heavy responsibilities, faultlessly.”

_Are you really stupid enough to go the “he’s guilty but a hero” route?_

“There are four criteria for a charge of malfeasance of office,” Thorne said, and ticked them off on his fingers. “The accused must be a public officer exercising their power, must have committed either willful neglect of their duties and/or willful misconduct that exhibits targeted malice or exceeding their powers, it must be to a significant enough degree that it constitutes a breach of the trust our people have in them, and finally… it must be done without reasonable excuse or justification.”

“Damn,” Harry hissed before he could stop himself. Thorne had hit on the most powerful counterargument. They’d planned for this, of course, Tate’s strategy involved pretending she was the defense attorney and looking for what she would do in their place, but they had really hoped Thorne wouldn’t see it.

“The evidence presented by the prosecution does suggest that the first three criteria have been met,” Thorne went on. _Slippery._ “But before any Wizengamot judgment is passed, the fourth requirement for this charge must be considered. I will now call the accused forward to present his case. Albus?”

“Thank you, Ethan.” Dumbledore didn’t stand, but he somehow managed to give off the impression of genial strength. Harry glowered at him.

Thorne glanced down at the parchment in his hands. “Would you be so kind as to explain yourself?”

“Of course,” Dumbledore said. “It would be my pleasure.

“The results of my actions have been a heavy burden to bear these last twelve years… I can say only that I was afraid. The war created so much chaos, so much indecision—I did my best to watch over all my former students, and it seemed that dear Mr. Black had indeed lost his way. In a time of such flux, a wizard with Dark inclinations who yet was not a Death Eater could escape notice and cause great damage later. I believed I was doing the world a service.”

“You thought locking someone up for crimes they never committed was doing the world a service,” the same grizzled older wizard said drily. “Stellar reasoning, Albus.”

“Rufus,” Sullivan said. The other wizard settled back in his seat.

Harry looked at Theo.

“Rufus Scrimgeour, graduate of Slytherin,” Theo said under his breath. “Elected seat. Been on there for fourteen years. He and my father argue a lot but they’re friends.”

Harry nodded slowly. If the man had an elected seat, it wasn’t likely he’d supported the Dark in the last war, but he was still friends with Lord Nott, who almost definitely had. They didn’t talk about it, but Harry had picked up on the nuances, and he would bet the contents of his trust vault that Lords Nott and Malfoy had lied when they used the Imperius defense.

“Is that all, Albus?” Sullivan drawled. Harry raised an eyebrow. He’d never met a Hufflepuff quite as… caustic… as Finn’s relation seemed to be. Not to mention he’d probably end up the new Chief Warlock if he’d been chosen to act that position while Dumbledore was on suspension. Harry would have to consider cultivating the younger boy a bit more next year. Possibly he could arrange some get-togethers over the summer that involved Ginny’s friends.

Dumbledore folded his hands in his lap, appearing entirely at ease. Harry rather wanted to charm his robes just to get the horrendous bright green spots to stop _moving_. They were hurting his eyes. “If the Wizengamot disagrees with me, Aiden, I doubt repeating myself in more florid language will change any minds.”

“Very well,” Sullivan said. Harry could’ve sworn he saw a ghost of a smile on the acting Chief Warlock’s face. As a Hufflepuff, the man’s sense of fair play would probably keep him from trying to swing the decision for the sake of his own potential gain if Dumbledore was kicked off, but that same sense of fair play was likely to get him on Sirius’ side, and the word of the man chosen to take Dumbledore’s place temporarily would carry weight.

Sullivan rose. “The Wizengamot will now retreat to our private chamber for deliberation. Attorneys and defendants, please remain until we are finished.”

The visitors’ section erupted into a murmur as everyone started talking about what they’d just witnessed. Meanwhile, the back row of Wizengamot members was the first to stand and file out through a door Harry hadn’t noticed set high against the back of the room. Then the second and the third, until Sullivan was the last out.

No one in the visitor’s section left. Harry knew there were more people outside, waiting on the special lift down from the Atrium that would bring them to and from the courtrooms for today only, pressing against the door and hoping someone would leave so they could get in. The outcome of this trial would spread through the Ministry within a few hours and most of wizarding Britain within a day.

“Why’d Tate start with talking Dumbledore up?” Neville said.

Pansy beat Harry to an answer. “She had to do that so she could counter it. The best way to shut down your opponent’s argument is to admit that it exists and then debunk it before they even have the chance to bring it up. People treat Dumbledore’s history as a curseproof shield against any wrongdoing today—he’d practically the second coming of Merlin to some. If she didn’t admit to that, it’d make her case weaker.”

“Oh,” Neville said, drawing the word out with an impressed glance at Tate.

Harry looked at Theo. “Samhain rites?” he said.

There was a pause.

“Later,” Neville said. _Neville_. Somehow, all three of Harry’s friends knew about this, and he didn’t. Unsettling. Harry also didn’t miss the sharp and appraising glance Lord Parkinson shot Neville in that moment. Pansy’s father was lean and angular, with slanted eyes and black hair that hinted at East Asian heritage. Harry could see it in Pansy, too, now that he knew to look—her black hair, slender frame, high cheekbones, and dark eyes. Lord Parkinson had barely said three words after “Well met, Heir Potter” and there was an incisive intelligence behind his cool mask that impressed Harry.

“How long is this going to take?” Harry asked, moving away from the rites thing. “I’ve never been to a trial before.”

“Most haven’t,” Pansy said. “For some cases, they just put it to a straightforward vote, or have a bit of a debate first in the courtroom beforehand.”

“In my experience, the more people in the visitors’ section, the more likely they are to retreat for the debate and vote,” Lord Parkinson said in a liquid voice. “My wife informs me that many of her fellows are reluctant to express their opinions where a reporter may overhear and… misinterpret.”

Sounded like Muggle politics. Harry had spent enough time watching various news channels in the Dursley home when they were out and he was supposed to be locked in his cupboard or his room that he knew how different people could twist someone’s words and create completely opposite interpretations.

“Probably about a half an hour,” Theo said. “That’s how long Father says most of these things take.”

“We’ll find out what went on in there later,” Neville said. “Gran always comes home and talks about it…”

“Mr. Potter,” Lord Parkinson said. “My daughter has told me a bit about you, and I confess I find myself curious. You have had a very small presence in our world in between the school years up until now. I do like to meet my daughter’s friends.”

Harry hid a smirk at the question that wasn’t a question. Pansy’s dad was definitely a Slytherin. “I have, sir. I’ve grown up with my mum’s Muggle relatives, and they are… not fond of magic. Spending part of every summer at their home has greatly limited my ability to meet my friends’ families. And call me Harry, please.”

“I see,” Lord Parkinson said, a faint hint of disapproval in his voice. “But you have spent _part_ of every summer there…”

“The remainder for the last two years has been with the Weasleys,” Harry said, choosing his words with care. “My father does not… approve of some of the friends I’ve made.”

“Ah.” Lord Parkinson understood the subtext, just as Harry had expected. He wished he could’ve spent the summers with his other friends’ families instead of with the Weasleys, where only Ginny and kind of the twins could keep up with Slytherin wordplay. “Well. Pansy tells me you intend to live with your godfather from now on. I do hope he will be a bit more understanding.”

The urge to smirk got stronger. “I believe he will, sir.”

Lord Parkinson nodded and returned to watching the witnesses and attorneys with inscrutable eyes.

“He likes you,” Pansy hissed.

Harry raised an eyebrow. The chatter around them, and the way Theo and Neville were leaning in, meant the four of them could converse without worrying about anyone overhearing if they kept their voices down. “Is he always this cold with people he likes?”

“He basically invited you over to our manor,” Pansy said. “He wouldn’t have, otherwise.”

“Gran’s the same way,” Neville said. “About—my friends, anyway. We had Hermione and Justin over for a bit at the start of last summer, before Gran and I went traveling. She met them on the platform after school.”

“Just the one girl?” Theo said.

Neville blushed. “Gran said no one would care, because the adult around is also a witch, and Justin was invited too. It wasn’t—wasn’t like that.”

“This has to do with marriage understandings,” Harry said. “Isn’t it?”

“To have just a girl overnight for more than two nights suggests some kind of understanding if the one who invited her is a boy close to the same age,” Pansy explained. “Or a witch interested in girls. Same goes the other way, if it’s a boy staying over.”

“Seems… unnecessarily complicated,” Harry said. “Why to wizards tend to end up marrying so early? Muggles usually don’t do it right out of school.”

Theo shrugged. “It’s a family magic thing. Father says wizards have always been at risk of not making it to the die-peacefully-in-your-sleep stage, and it’s important to have an heir as soon as possible. Lots of old families have their kids marry soon after Hogwarts, have an heir, or an heir and a spare if they’re really worried, and then one or both of the parents go off to get Masteries or do research or apprenticeships or intern or work in the Ministry.”

Harry blinked. “And I missed out on this… why?”

“Weasleys,” Pansy sneered. “You think they follow the old traditions? If you’d gotten to spend more time with us in the summer, it would’ve come up before. Most of these things aren’t written down.”

“Ginny?”

Pansy glared at him. “You asked me to teach her, and I did. She knows how it works. Went off on a tear about her parents keeping her in the dark, actually.”

Harry nodded. There had definitely been tension in the Burrow so far this summer. It fit. “Are… how often do love marriages happen rather than political?” he said.

There was a pause.

“It varies,” Theo said slowly. “Some generations there’re more options, and some families are more open than others to including halfbloods or Muggle-borns in their families. The Malfoys and the Blacks haven’t married outside pureblood families for centuries, although they’ve both linked with the Rosiers, Prewetts, and Crouches, and they’ve all been known to intermarry with halfbloods or blood adopted Muggle-borns to keep from getting too inbred.”

“Blood adoption’s illegal,” Harry said. “Isn’t it?”

Pansy sneered. “As of 1803, yes. Bloody Ministry.”

“Pansy, not here,” Theo said.

“I read about it once,” Harry said, filing all this away. “Blood magic of any kind is considered dark now, isn’t it?”

Neville bit his lip. “Harry, can you cast a privacy ward?”

“Trace?”

“Completely useless in the Ministry,” Theo said derisively. “There’s nearly as much magic on this place as there is on Hogwarts.”

Harry nodded, pulled his ash wand, and put up three separate privacy spells. Sound still reached them from the rest of the room but everyone else would hear only an indistinct murmuring. Lord Parkinson looked sharply in his direction, and Harry sent him a smirk. The man nodded once and turned away again. Probably he assumed Pansy would fill him in later. Harry didn’t particularly care if she did.

“Done,” he said.

“Thanks,” Neville said. “Gran says we shouldn’t talk about things like this in public.”

“Blood magic’s completely outlawed,” Theo said softly. “But back when it was legal, a pureblood family could do blood adoptions on Muggle-borns, and often did. Paternity and maternity tests would show that child as belonging to that family. It was a way to incorporate them into our world without dealing with the risks of mixed allegiances and witch hunts. Required taking them away from their Muggle parents. Lots of times the parents thought their kids were possessed with demons or some bullshit, and let them go thankfully, ‘specially when the magical parents pretended to be religious people.”

“Priests,” Harry said.

Theo nodded. “Yeah, those, or—bishops or something? Like in chess?”

“So Muggle-borns… were just adopted?” Harry said, still trying to wrap his brain around that concept. The prejudice seemed so intrinsic for people like Malfoy and Montague, Crabbe and Goyle.

“The fear wasn’t dirty blood,” Neville said. “It was—remember how we argued with Hermione during second year? Witches and wizards were afraid Muggle-borns would lead Muggles to us. Adopted Muggle-borns raised in our world weren’t a problem. It was only after blood magic was outlawed as Dark that the division got worse and the whole ‘dirty blood’ prejudice issue got really bad.”

Harry stared at all of them. “And no one thought to mention this to me?”

“It’s… _we_ shouldn’t even know about this,” Theo said, eyes on Harry. Watchful. Cold. “I’m shocked you’ve even _heard_ of blood magic.”

“Let’s just say they should put some more restrictions on the restricted section,” Harry said tightly. “I can’t get at _all_ the books in there, yet, but a few of the less malevolent histories, the ones that aren’t liable to bite me or wither my eyes…” He trailed off.

“Neville, how do _you_ know about it?” Pansy said. “Or the old rites, for that matter.”

“Oh, can we talk about those now?” Harry said, a bit snidely.

“I’ll give you a book,” Theo said. “If Father lets me, that is. Wizards don’t hold with any of the religions Muggles follow today, really. Although I think some archaic forms of Islam are still popular in Egypt and India. The old rites, in England, are the things our ancestors practiced. Also outlawed as connected to the Dark.” He sneered. “Which is ridiculous, it’s just about honoring our ancestors and heritage and the old gods for the gift of magic.”

“We never talk about it,” Neville said quietly. “Those of us whose families still practice them… it’s not a thing to bandy about. Even with you, Harry.”

“So Sirius practicing the old rites…” Harry said slowly, trying not to be annoyed. He _really_ needed to get down Knockturn or into Theo’s library. “That’s bad because it suggests he’s Dark?”

“It’s probably his family,” Pansy said. “The Blacks are as Dark as they come. Even if he seems to not like them much. He probably got the rites from them.”

“Which leads us to you,” Theo said, eyeing Neville.

Neville gulped. “You c-can’t pass this on, okay?”

“Neville,” Pansy said. “We are _Slytherins._ ”

“Right.” Neville took a deep breath. “Gran was born a Selwyn.”

All three Slytherins raised their eyebrows. Harry knew the Selwyns from the history book. An old, powerful, and notoriously Dark family. “The Longbottoms accepted a _Selwyn?”_ Pansy said. “How did we not know this?”

“Her family wasn’t exactly happy,” Neville said, looking relieved that they hadn’t freaked out. Negatively. Harry’s mind spun. Blood adoptions, the sudden clarity regarding the origins of Muggle-born prejudice, and now old religious rites and Neville’s heritage. He couldn’t believe how successfully all this had been kept from him. Wondered if someone should step in and talk to Hermione. “They didn’t disinherit her, and my granddad’s family didn’t disinherit _him_ only if he and Gran agreed to drop contact with her family. They loved each other so the Selwyns let her go and they did it. But—yeah, she—still does the rites. Taught them to me.”

“And you all just… don’t talk about this,” Harry said.

Neville blushed bright red. “I’m sorry, Harry.”

“I told Ernie Macmillan when we were ten,” Theo said flatly. “Only a hint. He got scared, ran to his mum, and Father nearly got arrested. The Ministry is still breathing down our necks. Ernie and I were close friends before that. Now he won’t talk to me.” Harry did remember that Theo and Ernie seemed to avoid each other in shared classes. “Forgive me for being careful.”

Harry met his best friend’s eyes. Theo did seem sorry, but not regretful. An important distinction. He hadn’t _liked_ keeping secrets, but he’d do it again.

It wasn’t like Harry had never kept secrets.

“Nothing to forgive,” he said, trying a smile. “And don’t worry, I’m not going to run to the Ministry. You could tell them you and all the rest of our year have been doing illegal spells since first year.”

“Nice,” Neville muttered.

Theo relaxed a bit. “I was going to bring it up this year or next, anyway. The older Slytherins and some of the older Ravenclaws usually have some kind of secret Samhain and Beltane gathering. You’d notice if Blaise, Malfoy, Daphne, Pansy, and I all disappeared for a few hours.”

“I’ve seen you on Halloween,” Harry said, confused.

“Younger sets don’t do it,” Pansy said. “Fifth years and up only, since we have no adult supervision.”

Harry nodded. Made sense, he supposed. “I’d be interested in reading about it,” he said.

“I’m sure you’ll find some fascinating information if our language studies have gone well,” Theo said. Harry smirked. Theo had a good point; the books in the Chamber library were likely to reference these celebrations. He had ten of the books he could get off the shelves tucked away in the private library section of his trunk, and hopefully, if he and Theo kept at it, they’d be able to struggle through one or two by the end of the summer. Harry had already been skimming the books in Parseltongue; one of them dealt with runes and the other two with casting in Parseltongue. The complexity made his head hurt and he was extremely cautious about having them out of his trunk in the Weasley household.

The conversation turned to lighter things, arguing about which of the upper years were dating in secret, and Harry brought the privacy wards down.

Theo’s estimate was way off. By the time the Wizengamot emerged from their private chambers, an hour had gone by and the spectators were decidedly restless, although as Harry expected, no one had left.

“Malfoy looks like someone force-fed him a lemon,” Pansy said, eyeing them. “And Mum doesn’t look happy.”

“Keep it down,” Lord Parkinson admonished.

Pansy made a face but did as told.

Harry’s tension returned to him in a great rush as Sullivan stepped back up to the lectern. He’d managed to distract himself for a bit… but this. This was the moment.

“A decision has been reached,” Sullivan said, giving nothing away. “Albus Dumbledore, you have been convicted of malfeasance of office. You will henceforth be banned indefinitely from the Wizengamot and your family seat’s voting power suspended until the Wizengamot reinstates you or you abdicate your rights as Head of House to an heir. You will also be fined two hundred thousand galleons, to be paid as reparations to Lord Sirius Orion Corwin Black for the harm your actions have caused.” He tapped his wand on a stone on his lectern, which glowed briefly blue. “This trial is adjourned.”

Harry sat stunned as the room erupted.

“A fine? A _fine?”_ Theo was glaring furiously at Sullivan. “He should be in Azkaban!”

“Theodore,” Lord Parkinson said.

Theo winced. “Sorry, Neil.”

Pansy started swearing fluently under her breath. Even Neville looked outraged.

Calm. Calm. Harry reached for Occlumency, shrugged his emotions aside, until with a monumental effort he had a clear mind and could look objectively at the fury that turned his hands to ice and his face into a mask. Look at it, and think independently of it.

“He’s Dumbledore,” he said flatly, softly. Viciously. “They’re hardly going to send him to Azkaban, not for something as _trivial_ as this.” Down on the floor, Sirius was standing with Tate’s hand clamped on his shoulder, mouth opening, expression furious. Harry could see Tate had silenced him and probably put him under some kind of restrictive spell.

“Admirable composure, Harry,” Lord Parkinson said. “But perhaps we ought to wait and discuss this in private.”

Pansy shut up. “Sorry, dad.”

Lord Parkinson looked over the visitors’ section, which had dissolved into a chaotic, moving mess. He waved his wand and a witch who’d been rudely brushing past Neville was shoved back hard enough to fall over. Anyone else who got close to them bounced off an invisible barrier.

Harry closed his eyes and fought for self-control. They hadn’t really expected… but _still_.

Proof that this system was screwed up, and Dumbledore had too much power.

“I need to see Sirius,” he said, almost to himself, and then he was off before anyone could grab him, using a combination of elbows and silent stinging hexes to get people out of his way as he down the tiers instead of along them towards the stairs and the door.

Harry shoved a last older wizard out of the way and jumped down to the floor of the courtroom, landing lightly thanks to years of Quidditch practice. Someone else thumped down behind him. He turned around, wand at the ready, but it was just Theo, smirking at him. Harry tried a smile and turned back around.

His smile immediately turned to a frown before he smoothed his face into his usual Slytherin mask. Jules had come from somewhere and joined James, Arthur Weasley, Dumbledore, and Thorne at the table Ethan had been using. Only Sirius and Tate remained at theirs.

Jules glared at Harry, who only looked away. Theo sneered back at Harry’s twin and followed him over to Sirius and Tate.

“Could’ve gone worse,” Tate said as they walked up. “Could’ve gone better, but it also could’ve been a lot worse.”

“I know,” Sirius said, glaring at the lawyer. “Wish you hadn’t silenced me.”

She shrugged. “It was that or let you start swearing a blue streak at Albus Dumbledore when we’re tying to prove your mental stability.”

“We still got him,” Harry said.

Sirius grinned at him. Not nearly as bright as Harry remembered from the few pictures James kept around that had his friend in them, from before the war, but still—he could _smile_ after what he’d been through. “What do you say we spend that money buying up all his stocks in something? I’m sure Gringotts will be happy to help out.”

Harry grinned and Theo laughed. “I like how you think,” Theo said.

“Mr. Nott,” Sirius said, holding out a hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you under… better circumstances than last time.”

Theo smirked. “You look a lot better with a haircut.”

Sirius laughed. Harry throttled his relief that Sirius apparently wasn’t going to hold a grudge over Harry’s friend being a Nott and a Slytherin. Sirius had said he wouldn’t, but—still. Promises could be broken; actions could even be questioned, but this was a good start. If it turned from one action into a pattern, _then_ Harry would let himself be grateful and relieved. 

Sirius’ eyes shifted over the boys’ shoulder. “Lord Parkinson,” he said, and his voice was carefully modulated now, something like dislike or tension flashing in his eyes.

Pansy and Neville walked up with Pansy’s dad. Harry wondered if Neville was going home with one of his friends or waiting for his gran or going home alone.

“Lord Black,” Neil Parkinson said. “My condolences for what you’ve endured, and that today’s outcome was… less than satisfactory.”

Sirius half shrugged, still tense as a wire. “Better than nothing. He doesn’t get to vote now. Should be a step in the right direction for James’ trial.”

“There are several of us who have looked forward to the day that someone would manage to curb Albus Dumbledore’s influence,” Parkinson said, head cocked. “Pity that it came at such suffering for you, but—thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Sirius said, smiling with lots of teeth and no humor. Harry raised an eyebrow. His godfather was a Gryffindor but he played the game well.

“It seems we’ll be seeing more of each other this summer, as our children are friends,” Parkinson said. “I insist you call me Neil.”

Sirius hesitated.

“Sirius, then,” he said at last, holding out a hand to shake.

Pansy’s dad shook it. Theo and Harry and Neville swapped glances, telegraphing their silent surprise.

“Excuse me.”

Harry looked up, and found Ethan Thorne standing about ten feet away from their table, obsequious smile firmly on his perfectly symmetrical face. “Ms. Tate, I understand you’re representing Hadrian Potter in the case against James Potter,” Thorne said smoothly.

“I am, yes,” Tate said, her slightly more relaxed expression and posture snapping back into the stone-hard bearing she’d worn during the trial.

“Excellent, then we have all parties present.” Thorne presented a scroll to her. “I’ve just received permission from the Wizengamot to reschedule that trial.”

“To when?” Tate said politely, taking the scroll without opening it.

Thorne’s smile hardened a bit as well. “Now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK! To everyone who has been waiting with bated breath for Dumbledore and James to get their comeuppance--here's your first taste of it! I spent a disproportionately large amount of time researching British legal precedent, most of which knowledge didn't serve a purpose, for this scene and the first one in the next chapter. So nice when the wizarding world runs on logic instead of throwing innocents in Azkaban...
> 
> all appropriate gratitude to Sear, my lovely, brilliant beta! she made this fic about eight thousand times better than it would've been earlier and also was the mastermind behind this title. as is the general trend, because I can't title. (although I'm pretty proud of this *chapter* title, i must admit.) 
> 
> disclaimer: i'm not JKR, i'm not making money off this, HP and associated characters aren't mine, i am a broke college student spending too much free time on this so please don't sue me because you won't get any money. (why do people even write these? are they necessary? i'm going to google fanfiction lawsuits after i get out of the class i need to leave for)
> 
> pairings do start in this story, fyi. people will date multiple people. they're teenagers. no one meets their soulmate in 4th year. not to say that they won't eventually end up with a 4th year romantic interest, but no one has only one romantic interest in this series 
> 
> Edit 4/2/18: Sullivan asked Sirius "Were you responsible for the deaths of James Fleamont Potter and Lily Evans Potter?" Obviously James is still alive and this is a logical inconsistency that slipped past me and Sear. it has now been corrected. gratitude to the commenters who pointed it out!


	2. Partial Justice

A thousand thoughts flew through Harry’s head. They weren’t prepared. Thorne had to have an angle. A reason. A—

Oh. Duh. He ground his teeth together, affirming that the spectators’ section was completely empty. The Wizengamot and their two little clots of people were the only remaining occupants of the courtroom. Of _course_ they’d do it now. Harry’s face stayed set in a smooth mask but inside, he had never felt colder, or angrier. He also had to grudgingly admire Thorne. It was clever to run the second trial now, when the world would be distracted by Dumbledore’s mess. Get it over with while people were sidetracked and minimize the fallout.

“The Wizengamot’s signed off on it,” Tate said, turning to Harry with a serious look in her eyes. “The trial’s going forward.”

Translation: we don’t have a choice, so deal with it.

Harry nodded briskly, though his stomach tied itself into knots at the thought of what was about to happen. He’d had to give Pensieve memories for this, to prove the Dursleys were abusive. Pensieve memories the whole Wizengamot would watch.

Forget knots, his stomach was about to empty itself.

“That works,” he said politely.

Tate looked around. “Lords Black and Parkinson, children, I’m afraid you have to go back to the spectators’ seating for this.”

“I’m his godfather,” Sirius protested.

Tate glared. “And you’re not yet his guardian. As his legal guardian is going against him in this trial, and I’m his legal counsel, he can have me and me alone sit with him.”

Sirius glowered.

“It’s fine,” Harry said, unwillingly touched that Sirius was fighting so hard to stay. “Go.”

“If you’re sure,” Sirius said, lightly clasping Harry’s shoulder before retreating. Harry noticed he sat next to Lord Parkinson, although Sirius left a good meter of space between them.

He sat down next to Tate. James and Thorne sat at the other table. Dumbledore, Mr. Weasley, and Jules settled in as far from Harry’s supporters as they could get in the visitors’ section, although Mr. Weasley looked highly uncomfortable. Harry hoped he did. He’d been living in the man’s home for a week, and now Mr. Weasley was here, sitting with the people who were supporting the man who’d dumped Harry into an abusive home for ten years and evidently forgotten him. If Harry’s self-control had been much weaker he’d have been glaring curses at Mr. Weasley.

“You got this?” Tate said in an undertone.

Harry nodded stiffly. “I’ll handle it.”

He hadn’t mentally prepared himself for this. For—all his dirty laundry, or at least a lot of it, to get aired. His stupid horrible childhood. Harry wished he could keep it secret, wished he could stop flinching when men unexpectedly raised their voices, wished he didn’t have a pathological inability to trust people, wished his brother wasn’t so hard to like.

Harry thought bitterly that he so rarely got what he wished for, and it had really been stupid to even hope he’d get to keep his childhood secret forever.

Sullivan prodded the stone on his lectern. “Commencing the trial of James Fleamont Potter for obstruction of justice regarding the case of Sirius Orion Corwin Black, and neglect of his son and heir Hadrian Sirius Potter that resulted in Hadrian Potter spending his childhood in an abusive Muggle home.”

Harry’s sick stomach calmed a bit hearing his changed name. Hadrian _Sirius_ Potter. How it _should_ have been all these years. He wondered how different things would be if he’d grown up with Sirius. If he’d still be in Slytherin, if he and Jules would be friends, if he would know all the old rites.

“The presentation of evidence…” Sullivan said. “I believe we’ve already heard testimony from Lord Black, Mr. Lupin, and the Charms master affirming that James Potter knew who the true Secret Keeper of the Potter home was. All in favor of reviewing that evidence again?”

No hands went up.

“All in favor of convicting James Potter on the charge of obstruction of justice?”

Many hands went up instantly, others more slowly. Harry marked the fastest responses: the old lion-like wizard, Scrimgeour; Lord Nott; Lady Parkinson; Lord Malfoy; several from elected seats he didn’t recognize, including the vaguely familiar witch sitting by Scrimgeour; Lady Longbottom; a gray-haired wizard sitting next to her who glared at James’ table.

“Who’s next to Lady Longbottom?” Harry whispered.

“Gainor Selwyn,” Tate said, as Sullivan threw up a silencing ward and the Wizengamot turned to debate. “Augusta Longbottom’s uncle. Old bastard won’t give up the seat, even though he’s got three kids and four grandkids, one of whom is pregnant.” She said it with a lot of respect. Harry looked the old man over with increased interest.

Only a minute went by before Sullivan lowered the silencing charm. “James Potter, we charge you with one year of no voting privileges in the Wizengamot, two hundred hours of community service, and a fine of one hundred fifty thousand galleons paid to the personal vault of Sirius Orion Corwin Black.”

“Objection,” Ethan Thorne said. “That’s an excessive fine.”

“For twelve years in the worst hellhole ever cooked up by a sadistic Dark Lord?” sneered the woman next to Scrimgeour. “A fine of _any_ magnitude wouldn’t give back what Lord Black lost thanks to Potter’s idiocy.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Carson,” Sullivan said, with only a faint hint of reprimand in his voice. Harry took that to mean he agreed with her even if, as Chief Warlock, he had to stay impartial and couldn’t say it himself. He filed the witch’s name away. “As you can see, Mr. Thorne, there are some among us who argued strongly for a harsher sentence. Your objection is dismissed. We’ll move on to review the evidence for the second charge. Ms. Tate?”

Harry relished the expression on James’ face: shock, horror, fury, dismay. Jules’ face showed mostly the shock and dismay.

“Thank you, Mr. Sullivan,” Tate said, rising. She walked forward. “I have here a collection of Pensieve memories. Heir Potter and I chose these as representative of his childhood. If I may access the collective Pensieve?”

Sullivan prodded the rock on his lectern, and a panel in the floor slid aside, revealing a stone bowl set into the marble. Tate poured the jar of memories out over it. Harry clenched his fists under the table watching the silvery liquid float slowly down into the bowl and begin swirling around in circles. Tate’s firm had a Pensieve they had used to choose these, so he wasn’t unfamiliar with the sight, but Harry still hated watching copies of _his_ memories leaving his hands. Tate had promised they’d be destroyed as soon as the trial was over. It was only marginally helpful.

Tate came to sit with Harry again. “Everyone has a small Pensieve connection in front of them,” she said softly. “They can’t alter, extract, or add memories, but they can view them. None of them will see each other in the memory but they’ll all spend the same amount of time in there, or come out at the same time, if the Chief Warlock decides to pull everyone out at the same time. It was a devilish bit of spellwork. The family that makes them lives in Africa and they’re more secretive than the goblins. Three thousand years and no one’s been able to steal how they do it. They had to send three masters and five apprentices up on special commission in 1207 to set this up. It took two years.”

Harry nodded. Any other time he’d have gone off on a mental tangent about Pensieves and their complicated magic, but he was too nervous.

The memory viewing took fifteen minutes. Tate had explained when they were using the one her firm kept for any clients willing to use it that when you viewed Pensieve memories, your perception of time was altered, so you experienced much more time passing while in the memory than actually passed in the world. Harry knew what they were seeing—average days, in which he’d gotten maybe a cuff on the shoulder, Petunia’s barked orders and Vernon’s gleeful contempt and Dudley’s casual cruelty, in which he’d cooked massive meals for the rest of them and eaten a piece of plain toast and a glass of milk or water for himself, in which he spent hours doing chores; bad days of Harry Hunting and no meals, of running from his cousin’s gang, of the frying pan incident and several of the worse beatings Vernon had administered, which fortunately only happened a few times a year. Two instances of Harry being locked in a cupboard for a week, both from before he’d learned how to magically unlock his cupboard and go get food, because he didn’t want to reveal that ability to the Wizengamot. Tate had been shocked when he admitted he could wandlessly unlock things at will until she saw the memories and understood exactly how necessary it had been.

By the time the Wizengamot members sat up, blinking and slightly disoriented, Harry was working as hard as he ever had on his Occlumency to keep his tension hidden, his face cold and impassive. They settled back in their seats and he saw anger on many faces. Many, or most. Even Lucius Malfoy looked furious.

“Is there any other evidence?” Sullivan said. His composure had slipped and he was glaring at James Potter.

Tate floated several scrolls up to his lectern. “A comprehensive medical exam performed by an accredited St. Mungo’s healer at the Hogwarts infirmary showing evidence of years of habitual malnutrition and injuries healed by accidental magic rather than Muggle means. Written testimonies from Fred and George Weasley, Theodore Nott, Pansy Parkinson, and Blaise Zabini, all submitted separately and all matching, attesting that they had to rescue Mr. Potter from a room in his Muggle home after his first year at Hogwarts that had locks on the door and _bars on the window_.”

“How did they rescue Mr. Potter?” an unfamiliar person asked.

Tate glanced back at his table. “I’m sure you remember the inquiry regarding Arthur Weasley’s flying car two years ago?”

A snicker rippled through the Wizengamot, and Mr. Weasley sat up straighter, glowering a bit.

“We do,” Lord Nott said drily.

“The Weasley children used the car to come to Mr. Potter’s rescue after Mr. Potter’s friends wrote each other and realized he hadn’t responded to any of them,” Tate said. “They knew enough from school to suspect something was wrong between him and his relatives.”

“So they stole an illegally enchanted Muggle vehicle to break into a Muggle home and effectively kidnap a minor?” someone said.

Harry looked at Theo. _Macmillan_ , Theo mouthed.

“None of the children involved committed a crime,” Lucius Malfoy drawled. “The car had already been enchanted, and the Weasley boys borrowed it from their parents. Regarding the latter charges—well, it was a _Muggle_ home abusing a magical child. I’m sure we can make an exception.”

With an effort, Harry wrapped his brain around the fact that Lucius Malfoy was coming to his defense here. How had he ended up in a situation where _Lord Malfoy_ was on his side? He could understand if it was Theo or Pansy’s parent coming to his defense; their kids had been involved in the flying car thing—

Actually, Malfoy was probably stepping in because his friend Calvis Nott’s son was implicated. Harry settled his mind. That made a lot more sense.

“Regardless, we’re not here to debate Mr. Potter’s friends’ actions,” Scrimgeour said. “If anything, we should applaud their loyalty and willingness to do what they had to. The point is that the Potter boy needed rescuing because James Potter didn’t check in on his son.”

Sullivan tapped the documents on his lectern; Harry saw what he assumed were duplicates appear in front of all the other Wizengamot members. “Let’s review these, please,” he said.

Another five or so minutes passed. Harry pulled his wand out and started twirling it around and around his fingers. Something drew his attention to the visitors’ section. He glanced over and found Dumbledore’s eyes fixed on him, and there was an odd tightness in the cast of his face for just a second.

Harry raised an eyebrow at his headmaster and kept eye contact and kept twirling his wand until Dumbledore looked away.

“Anyone need more time?” Sullivan said.

No hands went up.

“Very well.” Sullivan shot James a distasteful look. “Ms. Tate, you’re petitioning the Wizengamot to declare Lord Black as Hadrian Potter’s legal guardian?”

“As Hadrian’s godfather, Lord Black is first in line to take custody if the parents are unable or unwilling to do right by their child,” Tate said. “And I think James Potter is pretty clearly both, based on the evidence.”

Sullivan nodded slowly.

“The mind healers?” an older witch near Augusta Longbottom called.

 “We checked a few days ago, when we were preparing for this case,” Tate said. “Lord Black will probably be cleared in about a week, two at the most. The Weasley family has agreed to keep looking after him until then.”

Looking at Mr. Weasley, Harry had to wonder if that was still true; Molly had been a little weird around him for the last week and Mr. Weasley was usually oblivious but something had changed in the last hour. Maybe bringing up the car thing in court. Maybe the fact that Dumbledore had actual consequences leveled at him and Arthur and Molly were his friends.

“One moment,” Sullivan said, and cast the silencing spell again.

“We’ve got them,” Tate said softly. Harry put in a massive effort to keep from clinging to the reassuring words and taking them as gospel. He had to stay objective, draw his own conclusions. Although he found himself agreeing as she went on. “Magical children are precious, Harry, and it would take a pretty callous person to not be affected by those memories. Even Dumbledore’s flunkies’ll have a hard time finding a reason to vote against Potter on this. Yes—look, they’re voting—”

Harry saw hands going up. Lots of hands. Not all, probably the abstainers thought the punishment was too harsh or too lenient and were withholding to express their disagreement, but there was a definite majority in agreement with whatever sentence their debate resulted in.

Sullivan lowered the privacy spell. “James Potter, the Wizengamot votes to convict you of obstruction of justice and criminal negligence. Restrictions written into the Wizengamot charter at its founding by the old magical families of England prevent us from leveling a prison sentence on you. We assign four hundred more hours of community service and a three hundred thousand galleon fine to be paid to Hadrian Potter’s trust vault. The only reason you retain custody of Julian Potter is that we have no evidence _he_ has ever been mistreated under your care. Lord Sirius Black now has custody of Hadrian Potter until such time as the child comes of age.”

It wasn’t a prison sentence, but Tate had explained the limitations the old families put on the Wizengamot at its founding to maintain some degree of autonomy from its rulings, and Harry had known from the start this wasn’t a crime bad enough to warrant time in Azkaban. He tallied up the money with what he’d earned off the basilisk corpse and the contents of his trust vault and decided he was set for quite a while, especially if he got a job and kept working to add to the family wealth, even though he wouldn’t gain access to the main Potter vaults until James died or granted him access. Given that James was likely to grant Harry access to absolutely nothing after this, Harry figured his father would die before Harry got the Lord’s ring, Wizengamot seat, and vaults.

James opened his mouth. Thorne put a hand on James’ arm. “We understand, Mr. Sullivan.”

Sullivan tapped his wand on the stone, which glowed again. Harry assumed it was some kind of tracking or recording device linked to the proceedings of each separate trial. “Case closed. This court will adjourn.”

Sirius was on his feet in a second, jumping down and crossing the room to Harry. He had a manic grin on his face. Theo, Neville, Pansy, and Lord Parkinson followed at a more normal pace. The Wizengamot members shuffled and stood and began to file out the back, except for Lord Nott and Lady Longbottom, who both started down to the floor, presumably to collect their children.

“It worked,” Sirius breathed. “You did it, Harry.”

“They definitely fined him more for the Boy Who Lived things,” Tate breathed, grinning. “Everyone knows the Potter vaults have been swelling with commissions from all the books and stories and histories talking about Jules Potter… I hoped they’d do it and it _worked._ ”

 _Not enough._ Harry still had to prove himself better than Jules. But this was a good start. Or a good middle ground, actually, since he’d come first in his year in Potions and third or fourth overall for three years running now, while Jules was only in the top ten once, in first year.

“Thank you for your services,” he said formally to Tate.

She grinned her shark smile at him. “It’s been a pleasure working with you, Mr. Potter.”

“I was meaning to ask this anyway but if you’re willing, I’d like to keep you on as a permanent solicitor and financial advisor,” Harry said. “Daphne tells me all three partners in your firm can handle both roles.”

Tate’s smile widened. “I would be delighted.”

They shook on it.

“I’ll owl you,” she said. “I’ve other work to see to today. Good day, Mr. Potter, Lord Black, Lord Parkinson.”

She walked away, heels clicking on the marble, just as Pansy’s dad, Harry’s friends, Lady Parkinson, Lady Longbottom, and Lord Nott arrived.

“Congratulations, Heir Potter,” Lady Parkinson said.

Harry flashed back to the Zabini wedding and his lessons with Matteo. He bowed at the waist, the precise depth appropriate for an heir to a noble house greeting full Lords and Ladies. “Thank you, Lady Parkinson. Well met, Lord Nott, Lady Longbottom.”

Neville, Pansy, and Theo echoed his greetings. Pansy stuck to the formal “Well met, Lady Longbottom” for Neville’s gran and used informal first names or Mum for the others; Neville likewise had to use the formal greeting for a Lord or Lady you didn’t know. Clearly he’d never met Pansy or Theo’s parents either.

Lady Parkinson looked Harry over with approval. “Someone’s taught you your manners.”

“We were all invited to Blaise Zabini’s mum’s wedding last summer,” Theo explained. “Blaise had a family friend school Harry and Justin Finch-Fletchley in appropriate manners beforehand.”

“Finch-Fletchley,” Lord Nott mused. Harry would never admit it but Theo’s dad intimidated him, even more than Lucius Malfoy. Malfoy was slippery, and dangerous, but Nott had a quiet self-contained sort of power that seemed even riskier to cross. “That’s the Muggle-born who’s been schooling Hestia Carrow in Arithmancy?”

“Yeah, him,” Pansy said, smirking.

“Always good to hear students pursuing Arithmancy,” Lady Parkinson said. “So many wizards discount it but it’s invaluable for spell creation and—”

“Yes, dear,” Lord Parkinson said, cutting off what was clearly a well-worn rant, based on his smile and Pansy’s eye roll. Lady Parkinson huffed but she was smiling at both of them.

“Will you be moving to the Black manor or the London home?” Lord Nott said.

Sirius looked a bit startled to be addressed. “Er—the London home. I’ve already moved in, actually. It’s a bit of a mess. The only house-elf at that residence has gone ‘round the bend a little, but the manor is… I don’t want all that space.”

“I remember the Black’s London home as having quite a bit of empty space,” Lady Longbottom said drily.

The other adults stared at her.

“I’m a Selwyn,” she said, a bit indignantly. “Don’t look at me like that. Of course I visited the Blacks.”

“Right,” Sirius said. “I always forget.”

Lady Longbottom scoffed. “Young people.”

Sirius looked affronted. Harry trod on his foot. He had a feeling he’d be doing that a lot.

“You and Harry must come over for dinner soon,” Lord Parkinson said. “I was just saying earlier that we haven’t gotten to meet Harry thanks to the deplorable situation with the Muggles and it’s high time we fixed that.”

“Sounds great,” Sirius said. It was maybe a bit stiff, but he was trying. Harry smiled at his godfather.

“I’ll owl Pansy and work out a time,” he said.

Sirius grinned back. “Works for me.”

Lord Nott checked his wristwatch. “Theo, I know you probably want to talk to your friends, but we have to catch our Portkey.”

“Oh, right,” Theo said. He’d explained to all of them in letters that he’d be spending a month in Berlin with a branch of Nott cousins. “See you guys.”

“Write us,” Pansy said. “We’ll want to hear all about Berlin.”

“I heard the university has some incredible gardens,” Neville said, a bit wistfully.

Theo snickered. “I’ll steal you some clippings.”

Neville looked torn between excitement and indignation that Theo would steal for him. On the one hand, plants. On the other, stealing.

“Have a good holiday, Calvis,” Lord Parkinson said.

Lord Nott nodded. “I’m sure I’ll see you when I come back. Pleasure as always, Augusta. Lord Black. And it was nice to meet you both, Harry, Neville.”

“You as well, sir,” Neville said. Harry nodded agreement.

Nott and Theo left. Harry watched them go, comparing the father’s solid build to Theo’s leaner frame, saw how the father’s quiet, steady power was transmuted into the whip-quick and cutting danger that Theo would one day be.

“Harry,” James said stiffly.

All of them looked up in surprise.

“Yes?” Harry said, and almost checked his tone, and then realized his days of having to tiptoe around James Potter were over. He had to stop himself from grinning like an idiot at the thought.

James’ jaw worked. “A word?”

Murmuring excuses, the Parkinsons and Longbottoms pulled back.

James glared at Sirius, who glared right back.

“I’d like to speak to my son,” James said stiffly.

“He’s not your son,” Sirius said, “and you can say it in front of me.”

Harry shrugged when James turned on him. “He’s my legal guardian now,” Harry drawled. “I don’t really have the authority to send him away, do I?”

James fumed for a few seconds before he got himself in hand. Harry could see Thorne, Dumbledore, and Mr. Weasley watching from over by their table, just out of earshot. “Harry,” he said. “If you thought things were bad enough for a—a _lawsuit_ , you could’ve talked to me—”

“You’ve known about this case for plenty of time to try and talk it out,” Harry said, at the same time as Sirius snarled “You had thirteen years to fix this, James.”

“I’m sorry, Sirius, for what happened to you,” James said, even more stiffly. “But you were a danger to myself and my children.”

“A _danger?”_ Sirius said incredulously.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “That’s quite ironic, considering that you and Dumblefuckup over there have been responsible for my very _unsafe_ childhood, while Sirius is the first adult in my life who’s given a shit about me when he didn’t have to.”

“Don’t talk about Dad like that,” Jules said. Harry wasn’t sure where he’d come from but there his brother was at James’ elbow, and he was every bit as angry. More, maybe, because Harry’s truncated childhood and Occlumency-driven introspection had burned childishly blunt thinking out of him but Jules still very much saw the world in black and white. “He’s Head Auror and Dumbledore isn’t a—a fuck up, he’s the greatest wizard—”

“The greatest wizard in history was Merlin,” Harry said. “A Slytherin, incidentally.”

Jules punched him.

Harry staggered back, blinking stars out of his eyes. His glasses had broken and so had his nose, if the pain was any indication.

Sirius and James were shouting. Their various allies were converging on the scene.

“Merlin’s balls,” he hissed, trying to keep the blood off his robes and the trembles from taking over his hands. But Harry held himself in check. He could get back at Jules for this _later_ , when they weren’t in the middle of the Ministry.

Neville had no such restraint. He threw himself at Jules.

“Pansy,” Harry said, and she was in the fray in a second, beating her father and Mr. Weasley and James to the brawling boys by two seconds. She dragged Neville backwards while Harry took advantage of the confusion to hiss out a wandless _reparo_ at his glasses.

“Hold still,” Lady Parkinson said brusquely, leveling her wand at Harry’s face. She traced out a complicated pattern. He blinked as the cartilage in his nose scraped against itself and it set. He could feel the familiar itch of healing magic; he’d healed himself on accident several times as a kid, and he’d spent a lot of time in the hospital wing. His nose was still tender when she was done, but it had stopped bleeding and it wasn’t crooked.

Another wave of her wand and the blood vanished from Harry’s face and robes.

“Thank you, Lady Parkinson,” he said.

“Dana, please,” she said, smiling. It wasn’t a soft smile—nothing about this woman was soft—but it seemed sincere. “I insist.”

“Harry, then,” he said, trying to smile back.

He turned back into the rest of their drama and found Neville sporting a black eye, Pansy clinging to his robes to keep him from throwing himself at Jules again; Lady Longbottom had forgotten herself and lit into Jules while James defended his son; Sirius was shouting at James and Dumbledore alike while Lord Parkinson watched with interest and Mr. Weasley with a cringe.

 _Bloody hell_ , Harry thought.

 

It took nearly fifteen minutes to get everything sorted out, ensure no one was going to do anything legally about Jules attacking Harry or Neville attacking Jules, and for them all to leave before another fight could break out. Harry stuck by Sirius’ side throughout. Sirius had stood up for him several times now and kept muttering that he wished he’d had a wand so he could curse Jules and James into pieces. Sirius _cared_.

He said goodbye to Dana and Lord Parkinson, who invited Harry, Neville, and Lady Longbottom to call him Neil, and the Longbottoms, whispering an extra _thank you_ to Neville. Neville grinned and didn’t seem to care about his black eye. “I’ve been tempted to do that for _years_ ,” he said. “Felt bloody fantastic.”

Lady Augusta scolded him, but halfheartedly.

Harry forced himself to hug Sirius goodbye, for his godfather’s sake, and watched him Disapparate with regret.

“Ready, Harry?” Mr. Weasley said uncomfortably, eyeing the Parkinsons.

“Yeah, thank you,” Harry said, waving one last goodbye and joining Mr. Weasley. “Sorry about all that unpleasantness…”

There was, Harry reflected, probably something wrong with the fact that he could only bring himself to speak the word _sorry_ when he was being completely insincere.

“Nothing to worry about,” Mr. Weasley said, still glaring over Harry’s shoulder. “We’re leaving from just up here… I got Cattermole to let us use the Floo connection in his office, Magical Maintenance, you know, they have to be able to get all ‘round the Ministry quickly, the rest of our offices only work for firecalls or Floo arrivals, and that’s if they’ve got a fireplace at all, mine hasn’t… Ah, here we are.”

He led Harry into a cramped office with towering piles of paper and books. Harry, who normally liked books, cringed back from these. They all had a desperate, neglected, dusty air, as if they hadn’t been taken care of and contained only the kind of horrid dry information that no one was interested in unless they had to be.

“Reggie, good to see you,” Mr. Weasley said.

A thin balding wizard looked up from a cluttered desk. “Ah! Arthur! One hell of a trial, wasn’t it? Merlin, are you Harry Potter?”

“I am,” Harry said stiffly, because this man apparently knew no manners at _all_.

Reggie Cattermole goggled at him, while Harry slipped farther behind his cool mask.

“Right,” Mr. Weasley said, “if we could just—you said we could—”

“Oh! Yes, the floo—silly of me to forget—have a good day, I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yes, for sure,” Mr. Weasley said, all but shoving Harry towards the fireplace. Harry grabbed a pinch of Floo powder from the jar and threw it down on the floor.

“The Burrow!” he shouted as the green flames roared to life.

After a few seconds of the spinning-down-a-drain feeling, Harry lurched forward out of the fireplace at the Burrow.

“Harry!” Ginny grinned at him. “How’d it go?”

He batted ash off his robes and stepped out of Mr. Weasley’s way. “Reasonably. They moved up James’ trial; it all happened today.”

She cocked an eyebrow but took the hint and backed off; Harry’d tell her and the twins the details later. The four of them had formed an alliance over the last week that involved standing up for each other against Ron, and working to keep Ginny out of Molly’s overbearing eye. Ginny’s new clothes, courtesy of Natalie, had already been the cause of four shouting matches, three with Molly and one with Ron. Ron preferred endless crass comments.

Mr. Weasley popped out next, looking harried. “Ginny—good. Where’s your mum?”

“Out back with the chickens,” Ginny said. “Tea?”

“No—no, thanks.” Mr. Weasley hurried away.

“So? What happened?” Ronald said, blustering into the kitchen like bad news in boots.

Harry barely spared him a glance as he started making tea, resigned to telling at least part of this now. “Dumbledore’s been convicted of malfeasance of office—”

“Malfeasance?” Ronald interrupted.

“You should consider swapping brains with a gerbil,” Ginny snapped. “It would be an improvement.”

“He misused his powers of office,” Harry explained, trying not to laugh.

Ronald glared at Ginny. “You sound like a filthy Slytherin.”

“That’s because I _am_ one,” she said waspishly.

“Honestly, if you’re going to insult her, you could at least try to be clever about it,” Harry said idly, just as the twins slouched into the kitchen. “Dumbledore’s been convicted of malfeasance of office and they moved up James’ trial and he’s been convicted of obstruction of justice and harmful negligence of a child.” He set the water boiling with a quick spell and poured it into his mug with a tea leaves to steep.

Ronald flushed an ugly, dull red. “ _Convicted?”_

“That’s generally what happens when you commit a crime, yes,” Harry said.

Fred sniggered. “Come on, Ronniekins, do try to keep up.”

“You’re being shown up by Slytherins,” George added. “Harry, pass me a mug?”

Harry slid the twins two mugs and the jars of tea they liked.

“Consequences?” Ginny said, eyeing Harry shrewdly.

He smirked at her. “Hefty fines for both of them, and James has got a lot of community service to do. Sullivan as good as straight up said they’d have given him a prison sentence if the Wizengamot charter didn’t protect heads of Noble houses like it does.”

“How hefty?” George said.

Harry paused. “Two hundred thousand from Dumbledore to Sirius, a hundred fifty thousand from James to Sirius and three hundred thousand from James to me.”

There was a moment of stunned silence.

 _“Galleons?”_ Fred said.

Harry nodded.

George’s mouth opened and closed like a fish.

“That’s not bloody fair!” Ronald all but howled.

“Sirius spent twelve years in hell for no reason, and I spent almost as long in almost hell for really stupid reasons,” Harry said flatly. “What else would you say should happen?”

Ronald glared at him. “I’m going to go firecall Jules.”

They watched him stomp into the living room.

“Also, Jules punched me,” Harry said thoughtfully. “At the end, after James tried to act like my childhood was no biggie and make up with Sirius.” Ginny, George, and Fred all winced. “And Sirius is my guardian now. I’ll be moving in with him in a week or two once the mind healers clear him.”

“Awesome,” George said, grinning.

Fred clapped Harry on the shoulder. Harry allowed it. “Congratulations, mate.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, grinning.

“You’ll still come ‘round and visit, right?” George said.

“Be bloody boring without you,” Fred said.

“We might have to go back to tormenting Percy nonstop.”

“And another summer of that might drive him actually insane.”

Ginny scowled at them. “As long as it’s not me. If you replace my wand with a trick one _one_ more time, I can and will steal Ronald’s to hex you into next week.”

“Ickle snakey’s got fangs,” Fred sniggered.

“Don’t come crying to me when you’ve got bats pouring out of your nose,” Harry advised. “I’m going to go… be on my own for a bit.”

“Right,” George said. “Hey—I’m glad it’s over, mate.”

“We know it was hard,” Fred added.

Harry tried to grin at them. “Thanks, guys.”

He stuck his head into the living room, saw Ronald on his knees with his head in the fireplace, presumably firecalling Jules, fired off a sticking charm to glue Ronald’s knees and toes to the floor, and headed upstairs. They’d given him Charlie’s old bedroom again, and the dragon posters were annoying and there were boxes everywhere but the door had a lock and Harry could cast some pretty stout wards now. It was far from the least safe or least comfortable place he’d ever had to himself. Harry closed the door and threw a _colloportus_ at it and flopped onto his bed.

Exhaustion hit him in a wave and he threw an arm over his eyes.

_“Harry.”_

_“Hey, Eriss._ ” He ran a finger lightly down his familiar’s back as she slid out from her hiding place beneath the bed and up onto his stomach. _“Catch anything today?”_

_“A mouse. They have lots here. And I bit a gnome. It died. Did they hurt old-man-Dumbledore and bad-father-James?”_

_“Good job with the mouse… and the gnome. They had to pay fines,”_ Harry said. _“To me, and to Sirius. And James has to do community service.”_

_“They should have to hurt worse.”_

Harry thought about hexing James, cursing Dumbledore. It was a tantalizing fantasy. _“I intend to make them, one day. But I have to get stronger first. A lot stronger.”_

_“Like I had to get strong before I could hunt mice? And I have to get stronger before I can catch a rat?”_

He scratched under her chin. _“Exactly like.”_

 _“Good.”_ Eriss wound herself into a satisfied coil. _“We will get stronger, and I’ll catch rats, and we’ll hurt anyone who hurts you. Or your other people.”_

Harry snickered. Eriss’ way of referring to other people and to his friends in general always amused him; her brain just worked differently from his.

_“I like your version of the future.”_

_“It’s not a_ version _. It just is.”_

 

Harry woke up, cast a quick _tempus_ , and groaned as he flopped back on his pillows.

 _“What’s wrong?”_ Eriss stuck her head sleepily out from under his blankets, tongue flickering.

 _“I can’t teach myself to sleep past six thirty_ ,” Harry grumbled. There was no sense staying in bed; he knew from experience it wouldn’t work. He had a hard time falling asleep if it wasn’t completely dark and there was already a fair amount of sunlight creeping in around the edges of the blinds. He made a mental note to look up light-blocking charms and rolled out of bed.

Eriss disappeared again, hiding in the warm depression Harry’s legs left in the mattress. _“I’m going back to sleep.”_

Harry grinned at her and cast a Notice-Me-Not so if Mrs. Weasley came in to clean she would hopefully not find a deadly snake hiding in Harry’s sheets.

By the time Molly came into the kitchen, Harry was already sitting at the table, holding a steaming mug of tea and reviewing the Standard Book of Spells, Grade Four. He’d gone through most of the book in second year and the summer after at the Weasleys, but it couldn’t hurt to review before the school year started.

“Morning, Mrs. Weasley,” he said with a bright smile. “I made tea.”

“Thank you, Harry dear,” she said, smiling back as she took the mug from him. Harry paid attention. He knew the favorite and least favorite types of tea for everyone in this household, mainly so he could set the preferred variety in front of Molly, Mr. Weasley, Ginny, and the twins, and the least preferred type in front of Ronald and Percy, who would then be forced to drink it because Molly would scold them for rudeness.

Molly set about making breakfast. Harry kind of missed cooking but she hated anyone else using her kitchen for more than tea and toast, so he stayed at the table with his book and his tea.

Ginny was the next to slouch in, yawning and struggling to tie her Weasley-wild hair back. She flopped into a chair across from Harry, who wordlessly shoved a full mug at her and set the water boiling. She didn’t even notice his silent spell and started making her tea.

“Ginny,” Molly scolded. “What do we say?”

“Morning, Mum,” she said, rolling her eyes where Molly couldn’t see. “Thank you, Harry.”

“You’re most welcome,” he said brightly.

Ginny scowled at him. “It is not natural to be that bloody cheerful this _early_.”

“Language!”

Ginny tensed. Harry suspected she was falling back on the Slytherin instinct to face challenges with a return challenge or a hex. He gave her a warning look, and she settled grumpily into her seat.

Something exploded over their heads.

“Oh that is _it_ ,” Molly said angrily, abandoning the scrambled eggs stirring themselves and taking off for the staircase.

Harry and Ginny listened to her yelling recede up the staircase. “FRED! GEORGE! WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT EXPLOSIONS IN THE HOUSE!”

“How d’you really feel about the trial?” Ginny said.

Harry stared into his mug. “I got out,” he said. “That’s what matters.”

The words rang hollow.

“Ha,” Ginny said. “I’m not an idiot, you know. Mum thinks you’re a ‘dear boy’ but she doesn’t see what really goes on in that head of yours. I don’t hardly think you’ll just agree the Wizengamot did enough.”

Harry drained the last of his tea and met her eyes and for once he didn’t bother to hide the part of him that the Dursleys had broken and then the revelation about James had shattered beyond repair. She flinched back slightly before she caught herself.

“Forgiveness is overrated,” he said, and got up to put the mug away.

Ginny waited a few minutes before she started peppering him with questions about the third year material, and Harry slid his mask back on and answered them like a good older student as one by one the rest of the family trickled in. Molly was the last down the stairs, right on Fred and George’s heels, muttering about her delinquent sons. George had a soot smudge on his ear. Both of them smirked at Harry as they sat down.

Harry stayed out of the conversation for the most part, listening to Mr. Weasley go on about kettles charmed to never boil and something about regurgitating toilets while the twins needled Percy and Ronald and Ginny sniped at each other when Molly wasn’t paying attention. It was pretty typical of how the summer had been going. No one mentioned the trials, but the events of the previous day lurked in everyone’s minds. He couldn’t wait to get out of this house and go live with Sirius.

“Who’s up for some Quidditch?” George said finally, pushing his empty plate away.

“Please,” Harry said.

“Great, let’s go,” Fred said, grinning. Ronald glowered at them. Harry knew he was torn between wanting to play and not wanting to spend time with Harry. He also knew Ronald would do exactly as he had been the whole summer—pick up his broom and Floo to Potter Manor instead.

Ginny stood up with them, putting her plate away. They all ran upstairs to put on their flying gear and for Harry to grab his broom, which he had declined to store in the Weasley broom shed. When he clattered back into the kitchen, though, with Fred and George and Ginny on his heels in Quidditch trousers and leather harnesses on over their cotton shirts, Molly stopped them with a glare. “Ginny, I need your help with the garden,” she said.

“I want to fly!” Ginny protested. “Make Ron do it, I’ve been helping in the garden all summer!”

“Ron is going to the Potters’,” Molly said firmly. “And it’s not proper for you to play Quidditch with older boys, you might get hurt!”

“I’m as good as any of them!”

Harry nudged her ankle with his toe, where Molly couldn’t see thanks to the kitchen table. “We’re not going to play proper Quidditch,” he said innocently, smiling at Molly. “Just fly around a bit for fun. We’re only wearing the leathers because we have to keep ourselves used to wearing them for the team, and because it’s safer that way.”

Molly hesitated.

“We’ll keep her safe,” George added, catching on, and Fred nodded. For once, both twins managed to wipe most of the mischief off their faces and look solemn.

“Well, I suppose,” Molly said reluctantly. “As long as you come help me in the garden afterwards.”

“Of course,” Ginny said, smiling sweetly and hugging Molly. “Thanks, mum!”

Harry grinned inside. She still had a temper but Ginny was definitely a Slytherin.

They trooped out the back door before Molly could change her mind, heading for the broom shed. For most of the walk, they were silent.

“We’re not actually just flying around, right?” Ginny said finally.

Harry raised an eyebrow at her. “You have to ask?”

“Just checking,” she grumbled.

The twins cackled. Harry grinned at her. “The field you use is over a hill,” he said. “I can set up a spell to warn me if anyone’s coming… and if she comes to look, you can just land and say you were watching to explain why we had the Quaffle and Bludgers up there.”

“Devious ickle snake,” Fred said, still laughing.

“Speaking of which, where’s Eriss?” George said.

Harry pointed back at the house as the Weasleys unlocked their broom shed. “She hates flying. Says it’s not natural for anything except birds to fly and she’d much rather stay on the ground where snakes belong.”

“Imagine if Mum found her,” George said.

Fred looked gleeful.

“No,” Harry said firmly. “I’ll talk another snake into helping if you insist, but you are _not_ using my familiar to scare your mum.”

“Fine,” Fred said. “Fun sponge.”

Ginny poked him with her broom. “ _Fun sponge?”_

“Yeah, like—he soaks up all the fun!”

“Circe,” Ginny said. “I can’t believe I’m related to you.”

George tugged on her hair. “What, this didn’t tip you off?”

Still bickering, they mounted their various brooms and took off for the pitch.

 

_Harry,_

_I’ve heard the final verdict! Five days until they clear me to take you in! I know a week and a half after the trial probably isn’t what you were hoping for, but one of them threatened to keep me in the hospital until August if I didn’t make the progress I’ve gotten in the last week, so I’ll take it._

_The London house is—well, frankly, I hate it, but the old family home is worse, and also way too much space for two people. My family is a paranoid and secretive lot and the manor’s actually a castle but we never tell outsiders that. I spent a few days in Potter Manor once with just your parents and Wormtail. It was awful. I can’t imagine the two of us rattling around an even bigger building alone. The London house needs a lot of work; like I said at the trial, the house-elf has completely lost it since Mum died—and good riddance to her—and the place is a mess. Doxy infestations, dirt everywhere, house-elf heads mounted on plaques in the stairwell, screaming portraits I can’t get off the walls. We’ll have to clean it up. A lot. I won’t lie, the work will be hard, but once we get it cleaned up and get rid of some of my family’s nastier relics, it’ll be decent. And I hear you’re pretty studious. The library is—extensive._

_My family has some ridiculous old wards on the property. The oldest have easily been there for seven or eight hundred years, and they’ve been layered and tweaked and reinforced and added to so much by so many wizards that they’ve become halfway sentient. End result is do_ not _try magical transportation into the property unless you’re a Black, which you unfortunately are not. Well, kind of, your grandmother on your dad’s side was a Black by birth, but the point is don’t Floo. We can meet in the Leaky instead, in five days—does ten work for you? I’d like to swing by Gringotts and check through the family vaults, and I need to do a bit of shopping. A lot of shopping. I need a new wand, new robes, replacement potions ingredients, and I’ve no idea where my old trunk went, so it’s high time I got a new one. I can do all that on my own, of course, but if you’re interested we can handle it together when I pick you up? If you want to swing by Flourish and Blotts, we can definitely do so. (Remus makes you sound like a Ravenclaw; do you really read that much?)_

_I haven’t spoken to James since the trial. Haven’t tried. I’m not interested in trying, either, not after what he did to me. As far as I’m concerned, we’re enemies now and I won’t ever forgive him. I don’t think Jules is interested in knowing me, either. If you want to try and stay on decent terms with them, though, don’t hesitate on my account. They’re still your family and I know how hard it is to turn your back on that. I won’t hold it against you or try to stop you._

_-Sirius_

_Sirius,_

_Congratulations! Great to hear that you’re doing better._

_I’m going to go out on a broom handle and guess the wards on your London house make the Trace somewhere near useless. I’ll brush up on cleaning spells; Molly Weasley probably has loads of books on the subject. And if the portraits won’t come off the walls (Permanent Sticking Charms?) try Muggle paint thinner. Your family doesn’t sound like the type of people to be aware of Muggle chemical compounds, much less think to ward against them. I can take you to a Muggle hardware store if you don’t think you can manage Muggle shopping. (Who is the portrait of? I kind of want to meet whoever it is before you wreck the paint… Morbid curiosity.)_

_Also—house-elf heads on plaques?_

_The Leaky at ten works perfectly, and I’d be happy to tag along your shopping trip! I need more robes, anyway; the growth charms on most of mine are at their limit. I also would love to poke through a few bookstores. And reading a lot hardly makes me a Ravenclaw! It’s like this: a Claw would say “knowledge is precious.” I would say “knowledge is power.”_

_James didn’t just screw you over. He (probably thanks to Dumbledore’s meddling) dumped me in a home with some of the nastiest people I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting for my whole life, never bothered to check on me when Petunia didn’t contact him about my accidental magic, and showed up when the school notified him I’d gotten my Hogwarts letter like he could just have his Heir back. He’s a cowardly fool and I have no intentions of playing nice with him anymore; I was only doing so this whole time because technically he was my guardian. That’s out of the way now (thanks to you.) Jules is—well, I doubt he’ll be willing to play nice with either of us now. If I can I’d rather not completely alienate my brother. But they aren’t my family in any way other than blood._

_I can’t wait to see you._

_-Harry_

_Harry,_

_The Trace is worse than useless at the London house. They tried to make my mum and dad alter the wards to let it work once. I was maybe three? All I remember is some loud noises and then the Ministry people’s hair all caught on fire and they couldn’t put it out for three days. My parents weren’t even touching their wands. It was the wards kicking in. You could duel Dumbledore on our roof and the Ministry would have no idea._

_The worst of the portraits is my mum. She likes to scream. There’s also a troll’s leg umbrella stand that’s cursed to trip anyone who the eldest Black in residence doesn’t like when they walk in. I was going to get rid of it but it was hilarious to see Remus trip over the thing every time he came to visit, so it’s staying._

_I went Muggle shopping once with your mum and managed to knock over a shelf of feminine products. I’m pretty sure your dad still has a picture somewhere of me lying on the floor covered in the boxes while your mum’s laughing in the background. It would probably be best to wait and go buy “paint thinner” with you._

_The house-elf head tradition was started a few generations back by one of my family’s nastier matriarchs. She thought it would be funny to chop their heads off when they got too old to serve effectively and mount them on the wall. I’ve been getting rid of them. Couldn’t stand their creepy glassy eyes staring at me all the time. They freaked me out when I was a kid and it’s even worse now. I’m—a lot jumpier._

_Oh, thank Merlin. I mean I would’ve played nice when I had to if you wanted to keep on visiting your father or having him and Jules over or whatever but you have no idea how much of a relief it is that I won’t have to. Jules I can work with. I think. Unless he tries to curse me. Would he do that? Don’t write back. I’m seeing you tomorrow; tell me then._

_-Sirius_


	3. Readjusting to the World

_Ginny_

It was with regret that Ginny waved Harry goodbye. He shot her a cocky wink in the last instant before the green flames reached up and sucked him away to the Leaky Cauldron, after the rest of her family had turned away. Such a different expression from the dead, empty, cold one he’d worn for a few seconds that morning after the trial…

She shook those thoughts off. It didn’t take a genius to figure out Harry’s childhood had been a sort of hell. It was common knowledge among the younger Slytherins, even if no one talked about it, that you didn’t cross Daphne Greengrass, Theo Nott, or Harry Potter, that you didn’t tease Blaise Zabini about his mother, and that you never asked Harry Potter about his home life.

The house already felt more hostile with him gone. Mum would never believe the we’re-just-flying-around excuse if it was Ginny and the twins. She’d have to go back to flying at night. At least now she had top-quality Quidditch goggles with night-vision charms hidden in the secret compartment of her new trunk, both bought on Harry’s recommendation. She frowned. Maybe she could bribe the twins into covering for her… but they’d want to know where she got the money. Also, Harry’s sponsorship of their “research,” and their arrangement of smuggling Muggle goods into the castle and selling them, meant Fred and George weren’t exactly strapped for galleons.

“Ginny, dear, where did you get that robe?”

Ginny blinked and focused back in on the kitchen. Fred and George had gone, Merlin knew where, leaving her alone at the table with Mum, Ron, and Percy. Bollocks.

“Natalie gave it to me,” she said as sweetly as she could.

Mum looked disapproving. “Should you really be accepting gifts, dear? You know how your father and I feel about charity.”

“It’s not charity,” Ginny said. How in Merlin’s name could she explain Slytherin gift-giving traditions to her family?

“Yef if ih,” Ron said.

Ginny looked down her nose at him. “Honestly, Ronald, it’s like having the ghoul at the table.”

“Watch your tone, young lady,” Mum scolded. “Ron, don’t talk with your mouth full.”

Ginny kicked her resentment in the teeth and it scuttled back into the corner of her brain where she usually made it stay.

“It’s charity if the gift given is of less monetary value than the one received,” Percy said pompously.

“No it’s not,” she said, glaring. “The money value of a gift matters less than tailoring it to the person, and putting thought into what you’re giving.”

He blinked. “Ginny—”

“Is that the slimy Slytherin way?” Ron jeered.

Ginny smiled sweetly at him. “Yes, Ronald, it is.”

“Both of you, enough,” Mum snapped. “Ginny, go change. There’s laundry that needs doing.”

“Just use magic,” Ginny protested.

“Magic doesn’t do it right,” Mum said. “Go on, unless you’d like to get dirty water all over that nice fabric.”

She didn’t sound like she cared about the fabric.

“I want to go fly,” Ginny said.

“You know how your father and I feel about you flying,” Mum said firmly. “Harry’s a dear but the twins are far too rough. Go change.”

Fuming, Ginny stomped upstairs.

 

_Harry_

He stepped out of the fireplace and brushed ash off his robes, relieved to be done staying at the Weasleys. There were tensions in the family that he felt uncomfortable bearing witness to. Their problems were their problems and he had no issues eavesdropping or mucking about in other people’s private affairs if he had a reason, but he didn’t like being forced in as an awkward third party observer to their family dramas.

Hopefully Ginny could refrain from hexing Ron silly.

Actually, on second thought, Harry would probably send her flowers if she did.

“Harry!”

He looked up, and grinned. “Sirius—Merlin, you’re looking better.”

“Master Reynolds was great,” Sirius said. “Pansy Parkinson’s uncle? He wasn’t my healer, but he popped his head in and let me know they were sending the good food my way.”

Harry nodded. He could tell. Even the week and a half since the trial had done his godfather good. His skin was still a bit sallow and sickly, and his cheeks were still hollow, and his eyes still sunken and haunted, but there was flesh on his bones now and he didn’t look like a phantom animated and driven by vengeance alone.

“How’re the Weasleys?” Sirius said. They started for the alley behind the Leaky, both of them ignoring the glances and glares they received from around the room. “I was never close with Molly and Arthur, but we knew each other…”

“They’re fine,” Harry said, and considered how much of the Weasleys’ laundry to air. A little bit of trust couldn’t hurt, he decided, since it wasn’t his secrets he was spilling. “Bit of friction over Ginny being in Slytherin—the youngest and only daughter. One year below mine. And Ronald, the boy in my year—he’s one of Jules’ best friends. We don’t get along.”

“I’d imagine not,” Sirius muttered. Harry tapped the right brick.

Sirius paused in the archway as the bricks swirled aside, and the sounds of Diagon Alley sprang from nowhere to invade their ears. Chatter and laughter and clicking shoes and shuffling robes. It was the center of magical Britain and always busy. Harry looked up the street towards Gringotts, over the bustling heads and pointed hats, and felt the same rush of affection he always did.

“Merlin,” Sirius muttered. “It’s the same… but not.”

Harry realized quite abruptly that this was the first time Sirius had been here since the war, and he guessed it hadn’t looked quite like this with a war on. He examined his godfather closely. Sirius’ face was weirdly expressive for someone who’d grown up a Black—that was Gryffindors for you—and he looked somewhere between stunned and longing.

“Do you… want to sit down for a bit?” Harry said hesitantly. Why was it so much harder to express sincere concern for another person than it was to fake it?

Sirius drew a ragged breath. “No, I’m—I can do it. Thanks.”

“We estranged Potter tagalongs ought to look out for each other,” Harry said with a smile. It felt a little forced and the one Sirius returned looked the same way, but at least they were both making an effort.

He distracted Sirius with talk of Quidditch and the twins’ pranks as they walked. Sirius gradually shook off his funk and joined in the conversation, though he couldn’t seem to stop staring hungrily at every storefront they passed; they weren’t even to Gringotts when he announced that he had to meet Fred and George Weasley as soon as possible.

Harry smirked. “I’m sure they’d be ecstatic to meet such an esteemed fellow prankster.”

“From the sound of it, you’re not so bad yourself,” Sirius said, grinning.

“I suppose not,” Harry said, still smirking. “I usually prefer to spend my time on less juvenile pursuits… but if someone starts something, well. Second year, I got into the fifth year boys’ dorm and messed with this one boy’s things for hexing me in the halls.”

Sirius whistled. “Nice work breaking those wards.”

Harry nodded; they’d reached Gringotts, and everyone knew you didn’t talk about things you didn’t want overheard in the Gringotts main chamber. Goblins had good ears and better memories. He dipped his head respectfully to the guards outside the door and entered on Sirius’ heels.

“I need to speak with my family’s account manager,” Sirius said in a low voice. “I assume you’d like to speak with whoever’s in charge of your vaults?”

“Yeah, I need to think about investments,” Harry said.

“Responsible,” Sirius said.

Harry shrugged. “My childhood ended somewhere around the age of four. If I’m a bit more mature than my peers, blame the Dursleys. And James.”

“Trust me, I do,” Sirius muttered.

He and Harry walked up to one of the clerks. “Good morning,” Sirius said, suddenly formal.

The goblin glanced up at them from the papers he was reviewing. “Lord Black,” he said in the sneering tone that all the goblins seemed to use with wizards. Based on what Harry remembered about the goblin wars from Binns’ classes, they weren’t entirely unjustified in doing so. “Here to speak with Balrung?”

“Yes, please.”

The goblin jerked his head. “Right through that door to my left. He’ll find you.”

“Thank you,” Sirius said. He clapped Harry’s shoulder. “See you in a bit, Harry.”

Harry waved goodbye.

“You as well, Heir Potter?”

Harry met the goblin’s eyes as politely as he could. “Is Stonemace in?”

The goblin checked something out of Harry’s line of sight. “He is. I assume you’d like a meeting.”

“If he’s free, that would be great,” Harry said.

“One moment.”

The goblin clambered down from his stool and disappeared into the same door Sirius had used. Harry shifted from one foot to another, looking around the atrium at the other witches and wizards, plus a few families who looked to be Muggle-borns dragging their parents around Diagon. The Muggles would’ve stuck out for their awed, befuddled expressions even if they’d been wearing proper robes.

“This way, Heir Potter.”

Harry jumped. He hadn’t noticed the goblin coming back—Pelcrag, according to his nametag. “Right.”

He followed Pelcrag into the private halls of Gringotts, past a number of heavy wooden doors with embossed labels. A few goblins walked by; all of them gave Harry a look like he was something they scraped off their shoe after a trip to a public restroom. He returned cordial nods and kept his face stubbornly pleasant.

“Here you are,” Pelcrag said, gesturing dismissively at one of the doors.

Harry bowed slightly. “Thank you.”

Pelcrag sniffed and walked off for his desk in the front chamber. Harry took a deep breath and knocked on Stonemace’s door.

“Come in.”

Harry opened the door. “Good to see you, Stonemace.”

“Heir Potter,” Stonemace said, grinning cruelly at Harry from behind his desk. “Sit down. My superiors appreciated the commission from our last transaction.”

“I hope you got a bonus.” Harry took the offered chair and ignored how uncomfortable it was. Stonemace probably set his office up that way on purpose. The desk and the thick gray carpet and the two oil paintings on the walls all screamed tasteful wealth and comfort. The painful chair was a bit out of place.

“As a matter of fact, I did.” Stonemace set aside a scroll. “What can I do for you today, Heir Potter?”

Harry grinned. “Well, I’m sure you can imagine why I might want an accounts manager separate from the one for the Potter family vaults, and in light of our… last transaction, as you put it, I thought you might like the position.”

 

“So how’d it go?” Sirius said.

Harry shrugged. “Got a new accounts manager, made some good investments… Oh, and he’ll be working on buying up shares in my uncle’s company, so I have some leverage in the future. You?”

“Nice,” Sirius said, drawing out the word. They strolled out of Gringotts side by side. Sirius was spinning a new withdrawal pouch around his finger by the strap. “Family vaults are all more or less in order. Going to call them up and have them fire him once you have the stocks?”

“Tempting,” Harry mused. “But no… I think I’d rather wait until I’ve got a little less public attention on me… and then drop by for a visit. A family reunion, of sorts.” He smirked. “I think I like the idea of him walking around terrified of when and if he’s going to lose his job over me. Kind of like I lived in fear of the next time he’d lose his temper and toss me around a little.”

Sirius stared at him. “I’m starting to see why you’re in Slytherin.”

“What, you didn’t start seeing that before?” Harry grinned back at him. “Azkaban messed you up more than I thought.”

Sirius laughed. “Could’ve been a Ravenclaw or one of the cleverer Hufflepuffs juggling legal matters.”

“Fair. Ollivanders first?” Harry hated the thought of being without a wand. He kept his holly wand in his normal right-arm holster and his ash wand in his dragonhide boots with seven layers of protection, concealment, and attention-dodging spells. Sirius, on the other hand, had been walking around without one for weeks.

Sirius nodded fervently. “Yes. Now. Merlin, I hope this doesn’t take as long as last time…”

They aimed for the wandmaker’s shop, which thankfully was one of the closest to Gringotts. “If you don’t mind me asking… why did it take so long for you to find your wand before?” Harry asked hesitantly.

“Ah.” Sirius paused. “The… My family always has an affinity for—certain types of magic.” His voice lowered, even though they were on a crowded street and so far no one had recognized either of them, which was one of the best types of protection against eavesdropping you could get. No one paid attention to anyone else in a crowd. “Dark. And by Dark I mean the kinds of old, powerful spells the Ministry’s terrified of, so they slap a label on and make them illegal.”

Harry started a bit.

“Surprised to hear me echoing your Slytherin friends?” Sirius said with a rueful grin.

“Er… a bit,” Harry admitted. “How’d you know you could… you know, say things like that to me?”

“Your best friend is Calvis Nott’s son,” Sirius said as if wondering if Harry was being deliberately dense. “Your other friends’ families are Parkinson, Zabini, Greengrass, and don’t think I forgot Neville Longbottom’s grandmother was born a Selwyn. And you’re in Slytherin. My brother wore green and silver; I know exactly what kinds of opinions they have.”

“Fair point.” Harry frowned. “Your brother, is he…”

“Dead,” Sirius said shortly.

Harry didn’t pry.

Sirius shook his head a bit, as if to clear it; something about the gesture was distinctly canine. “Anyway. I had my family affinity, but I also hated the lot of them, and the family magic got a little… weird... because of that. Took forever to find a wand that could handle—I think Ollivander called it a ‘fundamental struggle between mind and magic’.”

“Family magic is strongest in the Heir, right?” Harry said, thinking about Parseltongue and Gaunt lineage and him versus Jules.

Sirius nodded. “And even if the original Heir dies, the successor—like Jules—wouldn’t get the family magics. That’s set at birth. It’d just skip a generation… and sometimes if the magic’s diluted, it doesn’t show up for generations at a time.” He snorted. “Blacks do have an affinity for self-transfiguration. I got the animagus transformation before James or Peter… and I hear ‘Dromeda’s daughter’s a Metamorphmagus.” He looked wistful for a moment.

“You going to meet her?” Harry said. “I thought you said Andromeda was estranged?”

“She didn’t like James much,” Sirius said, and made a face. “We argued. Often. Plus I think she couldn’t bring herself to trust me because I was a member of the family that cast her out, even though I was Gryffindor and ran away when I was sixteen.”

Harry impulsively bumped his shoulder into Sirius’ arm. “Maybe you can smooth things over now. Since you’re the last Black.”

“Yeah,” Sirius said. “Maybe. Here—”

“Thanks,” Harry said, stepping through the open door of the wand shop. Sirius followed and let it swing shut on his heels.

For a few seconds, they were alone in the front of the shop. Harry strongly suspected there were sound-canceling wards on the building. As soon as the door settled into its frame, all the noise of Diagon Alley cut out, leaving only the weighty near-silence of the wand shop. Plants crawled up the front wall; a layer of dust sat on the windows and the higher shelves of wands that lined both side walls as they retreated into the gloom. Magic hung heavy and heady in the air. Harry found himself breathing it in with something that felt like hunger, remembering his previous trip to Ollivander’s with visceral clarity.

“Lord Black.”

Ollivander’s soft voice snapped Harry out of his trance. He narrowed his eyes: when had the old wandmaker appeared behind the counter?

“Ollivander,” Sirius said, hands shoved in his robe pockets like a nervous schoolboy. “I see you’re still doing well.”

Ollivander tilted his head, ignoring the niceties. Harry wondered if the old man did it to create atmosphere and mystique or if he actually just didn’t give a shit. “I remember your last wand. Spruce, twelve and one eighth inches, dragon heartstring, rather unyielding. Good for transfiguration… and curses. And you took a long time, yes, quite a long time to find your match…”

Sirius shifted. “Yes, well. It’s, er, broken.”

“Mmm.” Ollivander’s large, piercing eyes darted out of the gloom at them as he began plucking boxes off the shelves with unerring precision. “Wands honor the wizards who take care of them, Lord Black.”

“I was forced to swear an oath on it in school,” Sirius said stiffly. “Blackmailed with my brother’s life.”

 _Coerced_ , Harry thought, but didn’t correct him.

“I had to break the oath to survive… I don’t know where my wand ended up, but I felt it snap.” Sirius looked ill at the memory. “I don’t ever want to go through that again.”

Ollivander returned to the counter and placed a stack of two dozen slim boxes on it in a disorganized pile. He eyed Sirius for a long moment.

“Understand I only agree to sell you another wand because I believe you will not be so foolish as to treat it poorly,” Ollivander said at last.

“Thank you,” Sirius said. Genuine, overwhelming relief colored his voice, telling both Ollivander and Harry exactly how much he’d been craving having a wand again and also that he probably needed to get better at hiding his emotions.

Harry sat down and idly twirled his holly wand around his fingers as he watched Sirius try one wand after another. Cherry and phoenix feather, aspen and unicorn hair, birch and dragon heartstring, all rejections.

It was looking like they’d be there as long or longer than Harry had taken to find his wand when Ollivander suddenly hesitated over a box on the shelf.

Harry didn’t show it, but his attention was instantly and fully on the wandmaker. It was a very slight hesitation, but it was the first sign Ollivander had given of being anything less than sure of a wand choice.

“An interesting combination…” Ollivander murmured, weighing the box before he handed it over. “Thirteen and three quarter inches, yew, dragon heartstring. Not as unyielding as your previous wand, but still fairly stubborn…”

“Yew?” Sirius said, his hand hovering over the box.

Ollivander gave him a stern look. “The superstitions about yew wands are nothing but foolish chatter. It is a powerful wood that makes powerful wands, and it will be as loyal as you could wish.”

The man’s voice echoed in Harry’s memory. _“Thirteen and a half inches. Yew. I always wondered what would have happened with Voldemort had I not sold him his wand…”_

Sirius picked up the wand. Harry saw by the shift in his posture that this was the one before Sirius even waved it, and a rush of wind swirled around him, picking up dust from the floor and the air until it swirled in a faint vortex lit up gold by the odd half-light of the wand shop.

The air died down.

“I think this is it,” Sirius said with a nervous grin.

 _Yew. How interesting._ Harry wandered over to his side like he hadn’t noticed the sudden sharp interest Ollivander was displaying in Sirius.

“Seven galleons,” Ollivander said.

Sirius dug in his bag for a second and handed over the money. Ollivander bowed them out of the shop.

Harry blinked a few times as his eyes and ears readjusted to the vibrant color and sound and life of the rest of Diagon. It was a sharp contrast from the quiet, timeless wand shop.

“Yew,” Sirius muttered, examining his new, pale wand. “That’s, er.”

“What’s the superstition about yew?” Harry said.

Sirius set off purposefully down Diagon. Harry had to scramble for a few strides to catch up. It was a few seconds before Sirius replied, “They say the owner of a yew wand means you’re inclined to turn Dark.”

“You have used Dark magic, though,” Harry said softly. “Just because you didn’t use it for _evil_ …”

“Fair point.” Sirius narrowed his eyes at Harry. “How d’you know…”

Harry shrugged. “Wasn’t hard to figure out James and Dumbledore’s fear of you didn’t come from nowhere. They’re zealots, but not that delusional.”

Sirius laughed harshly. The barking sound drew a few nervous glances; Harry caught at least two people suddenly realize who was walking there and turn to whisper to their companions. “You’re not wrong.” He eyed Harry. “How about you, godson?”

With a smirk, Harry spun his holly wand around his fingers with a flourish. “You said it yourself. Slytherin promotes certain… opinions.”

Sirius nodded. Harry steered the conversation back to the ways Diagon Alley had changed. Sirius seemed happy to talk about memories that didn’t hurt; the mind healers said it would help him to talk and write about what he remembered, since it would take time to see how much of his memory would come back at all.

People were starting to notice them, though. Harry kept his shoulders loose and his face impassive, and he didn’t think Sirius had caught on yet, but there were stares and whispers and curious, watchful eyes. There was also a bit of fear. Damn. Seemed James’ stupid Prophet interview carried some weight. Head Auror and father of the Boy Who Lived… his influence couldn’t be discounted. Even after the trials. Coverage had been mostly on Dumbledore, and James was reportedly on probation, but they were even keeping that hushed up.

Luckily, they made it to Twilfit and Tatting’s without incident. Harry held the door for Sirius this time and turned a vicious glare on some dumpy looking middle-aged witch who was looking after Sirius with an air of self-righteous indignation. She huffed at him but waddled away quickly.

“Welcome,” a shop attendant was saying as Harry finally slid inside. The man seemed a bit taken aback by Sirius’ still sickly appearance, but he plastered a bright smile on his face. “What may I do for you today?”

“A full wardrobe,” Sirius said pleasantly. “One for a Lord of an Ancient and Noble house, please. Finest materials you have. Money’s not a problem.”

The attendant blinked. “Ah, yes, of course. May I inquire what family? We can add the crest to some of the cloaks and cloak pins…”

Sirius hesitated. “Black.”

The attendant blanched a bit. “Yes, Lord Black, we can… we can do that. Er… if I may ask…”

Harry decided to intervene. He stepped up next to Sirius and gave the man a bright smile, turning on his charm full-force. “I’m sure you saw the trial in the Prophet last week. Sirius has been with the mind healers, today’s the first time they gave him leave to come to Diagon… and some people haven’t been very nice about it… We came here because I’ve been before and always had the best of service.”

“My apologies,” the attendant said, relaxing almost completely. He still looked a bit nervous, but Harry had gotten quite good at putting people at ease when he wanted to. “Of course, it’s such a pity how many people can’t think critically about these issues. Right this way, Lord Black. You’re Mr. Potter, I presume?”

Harry smiled again. “I am, yeah. Harry’s fine.”

“Nick Castle,” the attendant said. “Will you be needing anything today?”

“Full wardrobe as well, but not as fancy,” Harry said.

Sirius laughed. It sounded more natural this time. “He’s just a schoolkid, no need for the full nine yards. Put it all on my tab.”

“Formal dress robes, though, please,” Harry said, suddenly remembering a hint Mr. Weasley had dropped to him and Ronald a few days ago. “Three sets. One in black, one in Slytherin green, and one in… what other color would you recommend?”

He didn’t particularly care about the color, and asking people’s advice always endeared you to them. Sure enough, Nick Castle grinned conspiratorially. “Hmm… maybe a nice dark royal blue, and silver embroidery, with those eyes of yours.”

“Sounds good,” Harry said.

Nick Castle disappeared eagerly into the racks of premade robes and mannequins while Sirius and Harry made their way to the measuring and fitting section in the back corner. “Nice,” Sirius whispered.

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Harry said with a smirk.

Sirius laughed again, the most genuine one Harry had heard from him yet.

Harry flashed back to Matteo’s lessons and bought a cloak pin and set of dress robes both with the Potter family crest, three stars over a set of gnarled branches or maybe antlers that formed a rough triangle. He fully intended to wear the robes or the pin whenever he got the chance just to irritate Jules. He also got a cloak pin with the Slytherin crest set with tiny emeralds in the eyes of the snake. Sirius looked pained for half a second when he saw it before visibly checking his reaction and telling Harry it looked great with his new green dress robes. Harry appreciated the effort. It was more than James had ever done.

They finally left after an hour, weighed down with packages. “I need an extendable bag,” Sirius said with a grimace, watching Harry cheerfully stuff his three large bundles of new clothes into his charcoal gray pack.  

“You go ahead,” Harry said. “I got this at Dyson’s and it’s right next door to Whizz Hard Books.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Sirius said.

Harry wandered into Whizz Hard, greeted the bored-looking young woman behind the counter, and went for the history section. Dust lay thick on the shelves and it was obviously the least popular area of the used-and-new bookstore. Good. Least popular meant old editions, it meant better odds of books that had escaped one or two or four of the more recent rounds of Ministry editing and censorship. The history books were dry, but people didn’t care about them as much or edit or control them as heavily as actual spellbooks or books of magical theory, which meant they were likely to contain references to magics you weren’t even allowed to read about anymore.

An old book on agricultural magics yielded surprisingly interesting results. Just flipping through it, Harry saw four spells used in the butchering of pigs and cattle that could be used in combat, one or two from the section on working with horses that could be very useful for temporarily making oneself ever so slightly more endearing and trustworthy to others if they were adapted right, and four chapters on the history of blood magic in farming. Highly illegal blood magic. Harry grinned and added it to his stack.

“Harry—Merlin, are you _sure_ you’re not a Ravenclaw?”

Harry looks over his shoulder. The young woman tallying the price on the twenty-one books he’s found snorted at Sirius’ words as Sirius came into the shop, one of his new robes open at the front to show a tunic and trousers, a shoulder bag in a masculine style swinging off his arm.

“Very,” Harry said.

“What’s wrong with Ravenclaw?” the counter woman said.

Harry turns his charm up to ten as he turns around, not smiling, but doing the thing with his eyes and the set of his jaw that he’d practiced in the mirror as a kid to be as warm and friendly and likable as possible. It never worked on the teachers Dudley and Petunia made sure would hate him from the start, or on the kids Dudley chased away from him, but Mrs. Smithy fell for it and so had nearly all his professors at Hogwarts. “Nothing at all,” he said. “I’ve got the highest regard for Ravenclaws. I’m just quite sure that the house of blue and bronze is not for me.”

“Slytherin, then?” she said, adding the last book to the shopping bag, charmed to be larger on the inside than out, and to lighten the weight of whatever was inside. “That’ll be seventeen galleons and five sickles.”

“Slytherin and proud,” he agreed. He handed over the money without hesitation. Books were cheaper here than Flourish and Blotts. “Were you a Ravenclaw?”

“Yup,” she said, grinning. “Leah Sikes. What’s your name?”

“Harry.” He picked up the bag of books, hoping that would be the end of it—

“Ohhhh,” she said. “Harry _Potter_. Which means—Lord Black?”

Sirius smiled, a bit tightly. He’d wandered over to the self-defense section and found a book on advanced curses and countercurses. “Sirius, please. Lord Black was my grandfather.”

“Okay,” Leah Sikes said. She cocked her head. Harry could practically see the Ravenclaw wheels turning, fitting pieces together. “Let me guess, people haven’t been easy to convince that you’re innocent?”

“Got it in one.” Sirius set the book down on the counter and dug in his pocket for money.

Leah Sikes shrugged. “One galleon, eight sickles. Ignore them. People are stupid. Not everyone agrees with James Potter that casting certain spells makes you a terrible person. Anything else for you guys today?”

“Er—no, thanks, we’re good,” Harry said, a bit flummoxed. Sirius was blinking a lot as he took the book and they left.

They got halfway down the street before either of them spoke. “That was… interesting,” Sirius said.

Harry nodded thoughtfully. “Ravenclaws are odd.”

“Yeah,” Sirius said. “But perceptive.”

“Potioner’s now? I need to restock, anyway. Is there a potions lab in your London house?”

“A nasty, cramped one with rotten ingredients on all the shelves and potions residue all over the floor,” Sirius said in distaste. “The preservation charms failed. I haven’t even started on it yet. Uncle Alphard was the family potioner. He went a bit mad in his old age, made the place an absolute disaster. We can clean it up if you like potions.”

“Works for me.” Harry happily swung his book bag. “Should we maybe have them come by and restock in person, after it’s cleaned out?”

“Yeah, that’s a better idea. Flourish and Blotts it is.”

Harry slid a sideways look at Sirius. It was a bit risky asking for this now, when he didn’t know his godfather all that well… But, he decided, the risk was an acceptable one. “Actually… I’ve been wanting to look at some books that the Ministry doesn’t exactly approve of.”

“And you want to go down Knockturn,” Sirius guessed, grinning. It was a reckless expression that came with a mischievous gleam in his eye, an expression that reminded Harry that Sirius was a Gryffindor for a reason and had nearly killed a fellow student when told “do your worst”. It was the expression of someone who didn’t like rules.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “I might.”

“Beat me by a year,” Sirius said, snickering. “James and I sneaked off down Knockturn when we were fifteen. He got a bit creeped out after an hour or so.”

“’Course he did,” Harry said. “There’s a couple ways to get there, right?”

“Ministry watches the main one.” Sirius glanced around Diagon; they were walking past Gruoch and Sons, a less popular potioner. “And I’m not exactly a low profile figure right now. Let’s… try something else.”

“What something else?”

“Shortcut.”

Intrigued, Harry followed as Sirius slipped into an alley behind Gruoch and Sons. They picked their way past piles of garbage waiting to be vanished until the alley curved slightly and Diagon Alley disappeared.

Harry restrained himself from pointing out that the alley was a dead end. When magic was involved, nothing could be taken at face value. And he should trust Sirius.

Sirius stopped and turned around with a shit-eating grin. “Can you figure out where we’re going?”

Harry made a face at him. “Honestly?”

“No,” his godfather said with a perfectly straight face. “Seriously.”

“Merlin and Morgana, how d’you have any friends?” Harry said. “That was _awful.”_

“My puns are wonderful, thank you very much.” Sirius crossed his arms, obviously not about to show Harry how to get from here to Knockturn.

Harry sighed and flicked his wrist, dropping his wand out of its holster and into his hand. _“Specialis revelio,”_ he muttered.

Nothing happened.

“Didn’t think it’d be that easy, did you?” Sirius said, still grinning.

Harry mock glared at him and started running through his repertoire of spells designed to reveal other magic and previously cast spells. The first four were legal and got him absolutely nowhere. Then, with a subtle glance at Sirius, he tried a restricted spell.

A small grin.

Okay then. Harry switched to outright illegal spells, and on the second one a portion of the alley’s dead end turned faintly translucent.

“Nice,” Sirius said. “There’s only four, kind of five spells that’ll show you the passage. Come on.”

He ducked through the shimmery section of bricks. Harry had to close his eyes to make himself step into the wall, but he only felt a bit of a sharp tingle on his skin, and then he was standing on the other side in a very similar-looking alley. He canceled his spell with a flick of his wand and watched the bricks fade back into a normal, solid wall. It didn’t feel like anything but a brick wall when he prodded it with his fingers.

“How’d you ever find that?”

Sirius grimaced. “Mundungus Fletcher. Old Order of the Phoenix pal of Dumbledore’s. He was useful in the war mostly because he was tied into the criminal underworld, but about as reliable as Hagrid’s promises to not keep dangerous creatures in his hut. I worked with him a lot.”

“Useful,” Harry said.

They started picking their way back out. There was even more garbage on this side. Harry god fed up after two steps and started shooting _evanescos_ at the various heaps of nastiness. Sirius side-eyed him, probably for using a tricky fifth-year spell, but joined in without a word.

“How common knowledge is it really that Knockturn is where you go to buy things illegally?” Harry said. “I have a hard time believing the Ministry just leaves it alone.”

Sirius shrugged. He stepped out of the alley into a street that looked a lot like Diagon except a little shabbier, a little less colorful, a little less crowded. Harry saw what he was pretty sure was a collection of hags across the street, and a woman hawking toenails for some reason, and— _yes_ —two signs in sight advertising bookstores.

“They sweep through every month or so, never find anything. Anyone selling anything they shouldn’t knows exactly how to hide it from the Ministry,” Sirius said derisively, setting off down the street. Harry stalked along at his side and subtly altered his posture, setting his shoulders back, his chin, his face cold instead of kind and open. This seemed like the kind of place where you told people to not mess with you.

“I’m guessing Diagon is for tourists,” Harry said. “And this is where you end up if you can’t afford a flat on the nicer street. And the Ministry just labels it _dark_ and tells good upstanding witches and wizards to stay away so they don’t have to deal with any of these issues.”

“Probably.” Sirius shook his head in disgust. “Ministry never gets a bloody thing right… This work for you?”

Harry looked up at the slightly weather-worn sign. “How illegal do the books get?”

“I know of at least four Death Eaters who came here to pick up new books for their family libraries.”

“So fairly illegal.”

Sirius shrugged. “Definitely not more illegal than the stuff I grew up reading. My parents weren’t big on laws. Or morals.”

 _Fits what I know about your family._ “You coming?”

Sirius shrugged. “Might as well.”

Harry had to work to hold in a grin as he pushed into the shop and breathed in the familiar scent of a building that had long been home to many, many books. Paper, leather, glue, and knowledge. He wanted to get a copy of _Moste Potente Potions_ , which he’d seen in the Restricted Section but never managed to get off the shelves thanks to the wards he still couldn’t break. Other Potions books, with advanced theory, maybe some that involved blood magic… Oh, and he still needed his own copy of _Esoteric Incantations_ , and anything on spell creation, blood magic, runes, history…

“You’re _drooling,”_ Sirius said.

Harry snapped out of it and glared at him. “I am not.”

“Yes you are. Inside.” Sirius poked Harry’s head, grinning. The combination of reckless Gryffindor smile and haunted Azkaban eyes made him look more than a little unstable. Harry smirked back at him.

“Can I help you gentlemen?”

Harry turned around. A shortish man with white hair dressed in a solid black robe looked at them with bright eyes that missed nothing.

 “Pica,” Sirius said. “And here I thought you’d have withered away by now.”

Pica blinked. “Sirius Black. A man out of time. I was not expecting to see you again. I miss seeing your brother around here. Who was that friend Regulus always followed around? The Ravenclaw…”

“Barty Crouch,” Sirius muttered.

Harry filed the name away to research later. Every one of these names was another piece of the puzzle that was Sirius’ past. Something had happened that never made it into the back issues of the Prophet Harry had combed through when he was researching Sirius the year before. And hadn’t he heard the name Crouch before? In a more immediate context than just one of his books about pureblood etiquette and lineages and inheritance law?

“Right, Barty Crouch.” Pica shook his head. “Brilliant kid. Always in here picking over the boxes of new arrivals before I could even get them on the shelves. Regulus wasn’t far behind. Looking for anything in particular? Heir Potter, should you be here?”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “No.”

Pica laughed. “You could do much worse in a godson, Black. Though I never thought I’d see the day you got over your Slytherin hatred.”

“People change.” Sirius didn’t look happy with this jaunt down memory lane. All the progress he’d made as the day went was sliding away, leaving him haunted and withdrawn. Harry knew him well enough by now to tell that withdrawn was the exact opposite of Sirius’ nature, and it made something in his chest hurt to see.

Harry had to fight back a scowl. He cared too much about Sirius already. More than he’d expected to. Sentiment was a weakness.

 _Looks like I don’t have a choice on this one._ He stepped forward, drawing Pica’s attention. “I was just hoping to browse for a bit. Do you have an organization system, or…”

“Not as such,” Pica said. “You got to look and see what you find.”

Harry shrugged. More interesting that way. “Thanks.”

He strode off into the stacks. Sirius followed and Pica left them alone, thank Merlin. Harry didn’t know how to fix this, so he just backed off and let Sirius have some space to scan book spines with little interest while Harry dove into exploring them.

Within five minutes, Harry was wishing with his entire being that he’d come down Knockturn to go book shopping years ago.

“This is a _seventh edition_ of _Hogwarts, A History,”_ he said, brandishing the book at Sirius. “Seventh! Everything before the sixteenth is banned and they’re up to the _nineteenth_ edition now. This is… Merlin.” He added it to his pile. Pica had no conveniently featherlight and expandable baskets to pile his books into, so Harry just transfigured his old tunic, which had been a bit too small, into a crude wooden imitation of a Muggle supermarket basket and laid the featherlight and expandable charms on it himself. He wasn’t going to stagger around under a stack of two dozen books, thank you very much.

“Impressive,” Sirius said. He pulled a book down, examined it, and handed it to Harry with no explanation. Harry glanced at the cover— _Mind Magick—_ and added it to the basket. “Pica has some real hidden treasures here. I doubt even he knows all of what’s in this store.”

“Pica?” Harry said, crouching to examine the bottom shelf. Oh, excellent, _Forty Forgotten Potions_.

Sirius snorted and leaned on a shelf. “Yeah, I had to have it explained, too. Muggles apparently have some complicated system to name every animal for their—scientists, right? —to use. They call the European magpie _Pica pica_. Clever little bastards who steal and collect and hoard anything that catches their attention.”

“How apt,” Harry said, looking down the winding, slightly gloomy stacks. He couldn’t see any walls, or the front of the building. It wouldn’t surprise him to learn people had gotten lost in here.

“He chose it himself,” Sirius said. “No one names their kid Pica. Old man’s been here since before I first came around, and he looks exactly the same now as he did then.”

Harry slid _Blending Runic Arrays_ off the shelf and flipped through it. The book was a real doorstopper, and dense, and recommended six related books touching on runes, transfiguration, physical science, arithmancy, and linguistics to go with it. He quickly scribbled all six other titles on his arm with a ballpoint pen so he’d remember them later and stuffed the first book in his basket. “Who explained that to you?”

“Barty.”

“Who’s Barty Crouch?” Harry slid a quick glance up at Sirius. The man’s eyes were distant.

“A friend of my brother’s,” Sirius said. “He was a year below Regulus. Five years younger than me. Ask me more some other time.”

Harry was intensely curious about Barty Crouch and Regulus Black, but he could respect his godfather’s boundaries, and look them both up in old Prophet records instead of prying. “Okay. What d’you think of this book? Too dry?”

 

The bookstore could easily have swallowed Harry for several days on end, but he made himself stop after two hours. It wasn’t fair to keep Sirius stuck here; his godfather wasn’t an avid reader. Harry was considering finding or making a charm that would read books aloud and act like Muggle audio books. Might help Sirius if he didn’t have to sit still while he was reading.

Pica got seventy-five galleons out of Harry. He handed the money over without complaint. The purchase added over a hundred new books to Harry’s growing collection, easily enough to keep him occupied all summer, and that wasn’t even counting whatever he could dredge out of the Black library if Sirius gave him access to it. Harry couldn’t stop himself grinning like an absolute idiot as he and Sirius left Knockturn. He couldn’t wait to talk to Theo and Hermione about these.

“Is any of those legal?” Sirius said.

Harry looked down at the enchanted bag in his hand. “Um… I think about half of them are legal to _own_ … and probably at least four or five are legal to sell.”

“Spoken like a rule-breaker,” Sirius said, grinning. “How about we go show you my house?”

“Sure.” Harry smirked at his godfather. “I can’t wait to see what kind of horror house your infamous family came up with.”

Sirius made a face. “You have no idea.”

 

From outside, Harry thought the house looked fairly normal. Run-down, sure, but that was in line with the others on the street, all of which were three stories tall and narrow and grimy-fronted. Rubbish lay in piles on doorsteps and the grass in the middle of the square looked sad and unkempt.

“You mean to tell me the ridiculously wealthy and entitled and snobbish Black family lived… here?” Harry looked sneeringly around them.

Sirius coughed. “Yes, well, there’s been a building here that my family’s been living in for centuries. What’s around it changes. A lot. This century, it’s run-down buildings.” He looked around too, somewhere between disdainful and wistful. “Great-grandfather Cygnus wasn’t as awful as some of my other relatives. He used to tell stories about Grimmauld Place being really high-end. Mostly Muggles, but the Rosiers rented the place two down from us and the Greengrasses had the one across the square… they’ve both been mostly decent. Evan Rosier was one of the less awful Slytherins back in my school days.” He seemed to shake off the memories. Harry was just glad on his behalf that the memories still existed. “But—doesn’t matter. Number twelve, Grimmauld Place—that’s ours.”

“Lead the way.”

Whistling, Sirius strolled up to the front stoop of 12 Grimmauld Place, which looked more or less exactly like its fellows, except for there being no lights in the windows or garbage on the sidewalk in front of it. Harry noted a door that presumably led down into a basement, covered with heavy iron bars and padlocked shut, next to the steps.

As soon as he put a foot on the bottom step, a sharp tingle raced over his body, not unlike the one he’d felt stepping through the false wall into Knockturn, but it felt… more guided, somehow. Questing. The tingle lingered on Harry’s two wands, on Eriss in his pack, and for some reason, on his scar. Harry resisted the urge to rub it. His scar wasn’t anything special, not a big dramatic curse scar like Jules’, just a small jagged mark that looked roughly like the rune Sowilo, meaning power. Jules had shrugged when Harry asked and said the scar came from some kind of rubble from the disaster that had been their nursery after Voldemort vanished. It made no sense for the wards to be anywhere near it.

“Weird, isn’t it?” Sirius said, watching him. “You should’ve seen James jump the first time he came by. They’ll recognize you from now on; it won’t be as bad.”

“James came here?”

“Yeah.” Sirius laid his hand on the front door and tilted his head; after a second, it creaked open. “Only once,” he continued in a whisper. “Hated it. My mum hated him. We were fifteen, summer before fifth year. Regulus was twelve; he had Barty Crouch over, and they were probably the only reason Mum didn’t turn around and hex James.”

“Unfortunate,” Harry said, taking his cues from Sirius and keeping his voice to a whisper as he followed Sirius into the front hall.

 Sirius shrugged. “At the time, I would’ve thought so. Remember the painting I said I wanted to get rid of?”

Harry closed the door behind him and the hall fell into complete darkness. “Yeah?”

“Want to meet her?”

Harry cocked his head. “…sure.” 

 _“Lumos,”_ Sirius said. Harry followed his lead. Their wands lit up.

The front hall was long, lined with a few doors on each side, and ended in a wide staircase paneled with dark wood that turned after a few steps and angled up to the left. Portraits took up the empty space on the walls, most of them sleeping, though a few of the nearest were beginning to stir.

“None of those,” Sirius said, following Harry’s gaze. “Bingo.”

He pointed at a set of dark green curtains just to Harry’s left.

“Would’ve thought those covered a door or something,” Harry whispered.

“Nope.” Sirius raised his voice. “Hey, Mum.”

With a clatter, the curtains shot aside. _“Youuuu!”_

Harry jumped back, wand already up and snapping off a reductor curse. The blast ricocheted off what he realized was a horribly lifelike painting of a drooling yellow-skinned old woman in a black cap and took a chunk out of the ceiling while she went right on shrieking.

 _“Traitor! Abomination! Shame of my flesh!”_ Her eyes fastened on Harry, and about popped out of her head. She shook a finger viciously at him. _“Filthy half-breed, byproduct of muck and vileness, get your taint out of my house!”_

Sirius raised his wand. _“Stupefy.”_

The woman froze.

“Charming,” Harry said.

“There’s a reason I ran away from home,” Sirius said, glaring at the portrait. “Horrible old hag…”

Harry helped him yank the curtains shut. Several other portraits had woken up and started shouting, and Sirius showed Harry the motion for the stunning spell and let him practice on the portraits until all of them were forcibly frozen and silent.

“Dinner?” Sirius said.

Harry stared at him. “You’ve been _living_ with this?”

“I haven’t gotten around to cleaning the front hall yet,” Sirius said. He waved his wand, and lamps on the walls lit up with the steady yellow-white glow of wizardlight. “Just the kitchen, and my old bedroom, and the bathrooms. Drawing room on the first floor’s going to be a nightmare and I haven’t even gone down to the basement yet. Plus there’s the matter of Kreacher.”

“Kreacher?” Harry said.

“House-elf.” Sirius made a face. “He’s out of his mind. Was utterly devoted to dear old Mum and he hates me with a passion.”

“Why?” Harry asked, following Sirius through a door by the base of the grand staircase.

“Because Mum hated me,” Sirius said indifferently. “She’d have disowned me if she could, but Grandfather Arcturus was Lord Black before her and he decreed neither she nor my father could inherit the title. Thank Merlin. As it was, she blasted ‘Dromeda and me both right off the family tapestry.”

He walked down a short set of stone steps into the kitchen as he said it. Harry looked around. The room was clean and a lot less cluttered than any Muggle kitchen he’d ever seen. He supposed when you had magic the need for appliances like toasters and propane lines disappeared. Counters and cabinets ran around the walls, along with several glass-fronted displays of beautiful old dishes, and a long, scarred wooden table took up the middle of the room. “Still, it would be good to get the family house-elf on your side. Or at least willing to help out with the cleaning.”

“He threw a temper tantrum when I took his family’s heads down off the wall,” Sirius said darkly, yanking open a cabinet that appeared to act as a fridge. “He’s completely devoted to my family. Not the decent parts. Sandwiches? I’m afraid I don’t know how to make much else.”

“I can make something,” Harry offered, hauling open a cabinet. A disorganized mess of silver goblets, china dishes, and dust greeted him. He made a face and pulled out a plate and goblet for each of them, casting multiple scouring and purifying charms.

“You can cook?”

Harry bristled a bit at Sirius’ dubious tone and made himself relax; it wasn’t unreasonable to be surprised that a thirteen-year-old boy could cook. “Yeah… the Dursleys made me cook for them starting around when I was four. I like it, when I’m not cooking for a group of entitled bullies. It’s a bit like Potions, only no magic.”

“Er… all right, then,” Sirius said. “I… have a bedroom ready for you, on the second floor, if that’s all right? It’s one floor down from mine.”

“Sounds great,” Harry said absentmindedly. Sirius’ fridge was an odd mix of fruit, vegetables, cold pizza, half a chicken, and several sausages. “Meat lover, huh?”

“Didn’t get it much in… that place.” Sirius had gotten a bit quieter, a bit less present. “I’ve been craving it since I got out. Also peanut butter.”

Harry spied a glass jar of peanut butter in a corner, half-eaten, and resisted a smirk. “How about a chicken salad?” he said instead, since there was a block of parmesan, what looked like mayonnaise, apples, grapes…

“Er, sure,” Sirius said.

Harry grabbed the ingredients he needed, improvised when he had to, blasted freezing air at a colony of violently purple Hefther wasps in one of the cupboards until they were all dead, and got to work. Chicken salad had been one of his favorite foods as a kid and he had always been happy when Petunia told him to make it, because she invariably wanted huge quantities and it was easy to sneak some without her noticing the missing portion.

Sirius sat at the long wooden table while Harry cooked, watching with mild fascination. Harry grinned over his shoulder. “Have you never cooked?”

“Always had house-elves,” Sirius said. “Is this really like potions? Do you actually like potions or is it just that the bat expects Slytherins to top his class?”

Harry snickered as he set to work pulling grapes off the vine. “He does, but that’s not it. I liked science a lot as a kid and potions is basically chemistry with magic thrown in the mix, as far as I can tell. It’s… I don’t know, relaxing?” He hesitated. “I’ve found that Occlumency helps a lot.”

“You know Occlumency?” Sirius said sharply.

“I started studying it second year,” Harry said, peeking over his shoulder again. Sirius’ eyes were narrowed but he didn’t look angry.

“Not a bad idea,” Sirius muttered. “Occlumency helps with potions, huh? Might have to try that. It was never my best subject. Although maybe that’s because the Slytherins always had Potions with us.”

“I have no idea why Dumbledore always puts the two Houses that fight the most in Snape’s of all classes together,” Harry said. “But yeah, it does help. Clear mind makes it easier to… manage the magic, you know?”

“You would be amazed at how many people never realize potions is more than just dumping the ingredients in in the right order,” Sirius said.

Harry nodded. “Doesn’t help that Snape never tells anyone that you’re putting magic into it, too. Who taught you guys Potions? Did they explain that bit?”

“Slughorn,” Sirius said, laughing. “Textbook Slytherin. He did, but only in passing.”

“What was he like?” Harry wondered how far the standards had fallen—how different Snape was from his predecessors.

Sirius considered. “Decent teacher, bit dramatic. Good with potions, I’ll give him that. He liked to… collect people, you know? Had this whole little crowd of students with potential he liked to have dinners with and so on, he’d help them out with advice, sometimes he’d connect them with famous people he used to know. Basically he traded in favors. I hear he got Gwenogg Jones her tryout for the Harpies.”

“He ever try to collect you?”

“Tried.” Sirius shrugged. “Me and James both. The staff knew about Remus’… “furry little problem” as we called it. Remus was top of the class but Slughorn never invited him. I was pissed about it and turned all his invitations down flat. James went to a few of the things and said they were boring, so he quit.”

Harry shook his head at the Gryffindorishness of them both. Slughorn might’ve been distasteful, but he still could’ve been _useful_ if they’d managed to get over personal dislike. Sirius could’ve charmed him and gotten an invitation for Remus despite his curse if Slughorn liked him enough.

“You ever date?” he asked, partly because he was curious and partly because he wanted to ask about a safe topic.

Sirius grinned. Harry smirked—he’d suspected Sirius of being a ladies’ man, and by the smugness suddenly emanating from him in waves, he’d been right. “Oh yeah,” Sirius said.

Harry turned back around and set to work dicing the grapes as Sirius talked. It was good for his finesse with cutting charms.

“Dorcas Meadowes was a Ravenclaw… She and I went out a few times in fifth year. Bertha Jorkins once, but she drove me batty the entire time we were in Hogsmeade. Her daughter was involved in that mess with the enchanted diary your second year, right?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Parents pulled her out of school after that.”

“Don’t blame them. Then there was Marlene McKinnon. Gryffindor. One of your mum’s best friends, actually. We dated all through seventh year, but the war got in the way—we were going to pick up again when we had time, but—it didn’t work out. Er…” He laughed suddenly. “Emmaline Vance, once. Well. I asked her out once. She tried to hex me. It was on a dare, she was three years older—Harry!”

Harry jumped. His cutting charm went wide and slashed a gap in the wall. He glared at it, muttered a _reparo_ , and turned. “What?”

Sirius was staring at him. “You were casting silently!”

 _Shit._ Harry had to be more careful. Sirius seemed to care so far and some pathetic part of Harry was already desperately attached. “Yeah,” he said grudgingly.

“That’s… sixth year material,” Sirius said.

Harry raised a challenging eyebrow over his shoulder, hiding how anxious he was that Sirius wouldn’t make a big deal out of this, and how angry he was that he was anxious for someone else’s affection. “You’ve already seen me cast several illegal spells and a fifth-year curse.”

“Yeah, but—” Sirius shook his head. “Never mind. I was just… surprised, that’s all. You’re way ahead.”

Harry shrugged and went back to cutting the grapes. “I’ve got people to prove wrong,” he said, which was the closest he’d come to explaining what drove him to Sirius for probably a while.

“Fair enough,” Sirius said softly.

They were silent for a few minutes, and then Sirius picked back up, talking about his school days. Harry noticed that he carefully skirted a lot of topics, like the rivalry between the Gryffindors and a group of Slytherins whose surnames Harry recognized as belonging to future Death Eaters when they were mentioned. When he talked about James, there was a kind of bitter longing in his voice. His brother was barely mentioned at all.

Harry dished up a decent portion of chicken salad for both of them, covered the big bowl with a cloth, and set the plates out on the table for them, sitting across from Sirius.

“This is really good,” Sirius said, eyebrows twitching up as he tried a bite.

“I wasn’t lying about being a good cook,” Harry said, grinning. He took a bite of his own and considered. _Less cheese and more apple in the future._ “What have you been doing for food? If the house-elf doesn’t like you?”

“Muggle take-out,” Sirius said. “Lily taught me all about it, mostly because I can’t cook without setting the kitchen on fire and she needed to make sure I could feed myself and you and Jules when I babysat.”

Harry grinned. He could just imagine Sirius accidentally setting a toaster on fire and his mum yelling at him. Based on James and Sirius’ stories, she had a temper. “So… the house-elf. I think you should make an effort with him.”

“He’s horrible,” Sirius said flatly.

“Your options are kill him, get him to at least work with you, or have him lurk around the house giving you the evil eye while we do all the cleaning and I do all the cooking or we order take-out,” Harry said bluntly.

Sirius heaved a sigh. “If you can get him to change his attitude, fine. Otherwise I’m just waiting for the creepy old thing to keel over.”

“You said he loves your family, right?” Harry sat back and considered the angles. “I take it you want to get rid of all your parents’ pictures?”

“Yes,” Sirius said with feeling. “Most of the ancestral Blacks aren’t bad, but—I’m not having photographs of my happy family lying around to mock me.” His sneer was worthy of a Slytherin.

“Give them to—Kreacher, right?” Harry suggested. “They’ll be out of sight and it will at least make him happy to keep all the relics.”

Sirius blinked. “That’s… actually not a terrible idea.”

“Thanks for the glowing endorsement,” Harry said sarcastically.

Sirius pointed his fork at Harry. “You be quiet,” he said.

For just a second, Harry found himself reflexively shrinking back, began to retreat behind an indifferent mask to the faraway place he found when Vernon or Petunia started in on him or Dudley was hitting him. Then he shook it off and grounded himself. Sirius wasn’t Vernon and if it came to it, Harry could defend himself now.

“Sorry,” Sirius said quietly. “I was—joking.”

Harry tried a smile. It felt a bit false, and probably looked false, too.

Sirius cleared his throat. “Er—want a tour of the house?”

“Sure.” Relieved at the break in tension, Harry put the leftover salad in the fridge while Sirius set the dishes to washing themselves in the sink. He taught Harry the spell for it before they proceeded.

The first floor was taken up by a living room and formal dining room, both tastefully decorated with dark wood paneling and elegant green-and-gold wallpaper. The table and chairs in the dining room were dark, varnished wood, much nicer than the battered set in the kitchen. It flowed into the living room, which also had a set of doors opening into the middle of the entrance hall. Harry found himself impressed with the tasteful decoration and furniture, even though it all lay under a thick layer of dust and some of the drawers rattled and the curtains were moth-eaten and nasty.

The drawing room on the second floor was even worse. “This is where Mum collected all her nasty artifacts,” Sirius said with distaste, glaring at a tall glass cabinet full of various relics.

“Why are the curtains buzzing?” Harry started shooting dust-vanishing charms at the couch and discovered that a family of mice had taken up residence in the stuffing. He made sure Sirius was out of earshot before whispering a spell he’d only ever read about, one that cut off the oxygen to a given area. It drained him more than he’d expected, even for such a small area, but based on the frightened squeaks the mice were beginning to suffocate.

“Doxy infestation.” Sirius was pushing cautiously at a desk in the corner. “And I’m pretty sure this is a boggart, but it might well be something much worse, knowing my mother, so I haven’t opened it to find out yet. I’m planning on getting some backup for this one.”

“I’m backup,” Harry said, stubbornly holding the spell. The squeaks were dying out.

Sirius rolled his eyes and prowled over to a wardrobe in the corner. “It’s my job to look out for you, and obviously you’re a very capable wizard, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to put you in harm’s way like that.”

“You’d have done it,” Harry protested. He hated being treated like—like a _child_. Like someone _weak._

He cast a silent revealing charm. The mice were all dead. _“Evanesco,”_ Harry whispered, and their bodies disappeared.

“Yeah,” Sirius said, shutting the wardrobe with a snap. “And I was a reckless idiot who almost died multiple times before I was even sixteen. I’m one of the least equipped wizards in Britain to have custody of a teenage wizard, but damn if I’m not going to try.”

“I don’t need you to look after me,” Harry said, doing his best to stay calm. What was it about Sirius that wrecked his self-control like this? It made perfect logical sense to have someone other than a thirteen-year-old around to take on whatever lurked in the desk. And this was a stupid argument. So _why was he still fighting it?_

Sirius snickered. “You definitely don’t. I’m going to do it anyway.”

 _It’s logical_ , Harry told himself. _And he has a point. And this is not worth fighting._ “Okay,” he said.

“Okay?” Sirius blinked at him.

“It’s logical,” Harry said, aloud this time. He was confused, too, for about half a second, until he remembered Sirius was a Gryffindor and stubborn as hell. Sirius had probably been gearing up for a fight.

Sure enough, tension visibly drained out of Sirius’ shoulders. “Huh. You really are not like your dad.”

“Good,” Harry said.

Sirius laughed, short and barking. “Yes, good. I appreciate the glasses, by the way. You’d look like a miniature him otherwise.” He stopped and looked critically at Harry. “Except for the robes, you keep your clothes in way better condition than he ever bothered to.”

“Appearances are important,” Harry said.

Sirius muttered something that sounded a lot like _such a Slytherin_. Harry withheld his smirk as he followed his godfather back out into the hall.

The rest of the house was pretty much in line with what Harry had seen before. Nasty cursed relics, various magical creatures nesting in weird places, mice everywhere—Eriss was going to get fat—and once-beautiful furnishings fallen into dust and disrepair. Harry felt like he could cast the dusting charm in his sleep by the time they got up to the sixth floor. The house was three stories taller on the inside than it looked from the outside. Magic was awesome. 

“There’s only one thing on this floor,” Sirius said, grinning at Harry over his shoulder. “The library.”

Harry’s eyes widened before he could stop himself. “Can I…”

Sirius laughed at the look on his face. “I told you you’d have access to it, didn’t I? Put your hand on this door.”

The wood was cool under Harry’s palm. He felt the wards spark to life, tangling with his magic, while Sirius said “I, Lord Sirius Orion Corwin Black, head of my family, grant Hadrian Sirius Potter unlimited access to the Black family library and everything stored within.”

The wards shifted from exploring to welcoming. Harry felt them recognize his magical signature just as the door unlocked and swung open.

“Lights,” Sirius said, striding forward.

It must’ve been built into the light-spells somehow, because housings that looked like they were built for old-fashioned gas lamps flared with wizard light all around the room. Harry stopped and stared with awe. The library was creepy and stunning. There were no windows, and the walls were lined with books from floor to the ceiling twenty feet above his head. Stacks stretched from floor to ceiling as well, marching in neat rows across the room from right to left, broken only by an aisle down the middle. Harry squinted and could just make out the far wall of the room, also lined with books. To his left and right were clusters of horribly dusty and ratty chairs and tables. He really hoped there were more clusters of reading nooks back in the library, which seemed to take up more floor space than really should be available, because he had every intention of reading books that he probably shouldn’t. It really wasn’t very responsible of Sirius to give Harry unfettered access to everything in here… but, well, if Sirius was that eager to build a good relationship between Harry, then Harry wasn’t complaining. He found himself actually liking his godfather and in the meantime he got a whole load of fascinating books to peruse.

“Are you _sure_ —”

“Yes, very, I am not a Ravenclaw,” Harry said distractedly, walking forward. He went up to the first row of cross-section shelves and traces his fingers over the books. One of them hissed at him and another slid out before his hand even touched it. He looked: _Secrets of the Darkest Artes._

“That one bites,” Sirius said, reading over Harry’s shoulder. “Literally.”

Harry nudged it back on the shelf. Books that begged to be read were probably some of the more dangerous. “Thank you for this,” he breathed, looking around. So much information. So much _potential._

 _Knowledge is power_ , he thought, grinning. He wondered if the Potters had a family motto, and if he could change it once he inherited.

“I’ll come back later,” Sirius said, obviously trying not to laugh. “To help you clean some before we go to bed, and make sure you don’t fall asleep up here. You might catch some horrible disease.”

Harry almost forgot to say anything, but then he remembered it was normal to care what other people were doing when you lived in a house with them and it wouldn’t help his relationship with his godfather to let him leave without saying anything. “Where are you going?”

“Put away my new robes,” Sirius said. “My wardrobe’s pretty bare. It won’t take me more than an hour, probably…”

“Sounds good,” Harry agreed.

As soon as the door closed behind Sirius, Harry tore himself away from the bookshelf (literally; one of the books was trying to adhere to his fingers) and pulled out his trunk. A quick prod with his wand and it expanded to its normal size.

 _“Eriss,”_ he said.

His familiar poked her head out of his pack. _“Am I hiding from your dogfather?”_

Harry tried not to laugh. _“Godfather, Eriss. It’s godfather. And yes, for now. He’s pretty desperate to have me like him and he’s used Dark magic himself but he’s also got a lot of anti-Slytherin attitude to get over. I’m not going to push it with “oh look, I have a deadly snake for a familiar.””_

 _“I don’t like hiding,”_ she complained.

 _“I know._ ” Harry rubbed her head. _“If it helps, I fully intend to reveal you to a few more of the Slytherins this year.”_

 _“Oh, good.”_ Eriss’ head suddenly snapped over towards one of the sofas. Her tongue flickered. _“I smell prey.”_

 _“Go hunt,”_ Harry said. _“There’s loads of mice in this house. Probably rats, too. Just be careful; there’s also doxies and other nastiness hiding all over the place. And the house-elf might attack you.”_

 _“Mhm._ ” She was clearly only half listening. Eriss slid out of his pack and across the floor in silent hunting mode.

Harry watched her until she disappeared under one of the sofas, and then opened his trunk to the library section and started shelving his new books. He’d managed to cram all his purchases into his charcoal gray bag, barely, and it was enough that the lightweight charm was reaching its limits. It was a relief and a delight to start putting his new things away. Most of the Knockturn books went into the private section of his library, which was still smaller than the default one but gaining quickly, and the books from Whizz Hard almost all went in the default section. It was plenty of reading material to keep him occupied for most of the year. The Black library was even better; when he came across something he didn’t know, well—this was the Restricted Section on steroids and the wards wouldn’t bother him. He could keep a list of subjects to look up and tear through the library over Christmas break since he couldn’t very well have Dark or illegal books shipped to him in the morning post.

With one last longing glance at the shelves, Harry drew his ash wand—he liked to keep in practice with both—and dug a book he’d owl ordered from Flourish and Blotts on cleaning magic out of his trunk. Before he could dive into the books available here, he had to make it habitable.

 

He’d been working for an hour and a half, and had a stack of photographs set aside dredged up from a shelf near the front reading section, when he heard the door creak open.

Remembering the ghoul in the Weasley attic and the rattling desk and the doxy curtains, Harry instantly left off the cleaning charms and withdrew into the shadows of the corner, back to the bookshelves and wand at the ready. Wizarding homes seemed prone to nasty pest infestations and this house was especially bad.

But it was only a house-elf, stooped and wizened and glaring about, dressed in a ratty rag tied like a loincloth and absolutely nothing else. His skin seemed too large and white hair grew in tufts out of his ears.

“Kreacher?” Harry said, stepping forward.

The elf twitched and turned to glare at him. “Young Master,” he said, bowing low, and Harry could just make out a mutter of “Filthy half-breed, what would Mistress say if she knew the kind of horror her nasty ungrateful son let in the house of her ancestors…”

“She would probably try to duel me, and lose,” Harry said nonchalantly, spinning the ash wand around his fingers. He threw a wordless silencing charm at the door. “And I wouldn’t call me so filthy, if I were you. The Dark Lord tried to recruit my mother, Kreacher. If she was good enough for him, who was Walburga Black to say otherwise?”

Kreacher goggled at him. “Master surely lies, the Dark Lord would never stoop to recruit a Mudblood, oh no, Master Regulus would have—”

“He did,” Harry said cheerfully. James and Dumbledore and Jules had all said that Voldemort hated the Potters in part because he’d tried and failed to corrupt them. “Also, Kreacher, I have something for you.”

The elf seemed so shocked by this new information that he just stared at Harry, ears quivering, as Harry muttered _“Accio_ ,” and summoned the stack of photographs to him. He’d removed them from their frames and left the frames on the shelf for other pictures.

“Lord Black no longer wishes to be reminded of the parents that were cruel to him,” Harry said, kneeling, “but he’s given me permission to return to you any portraits or photographs of them he finds.”

Kreacher took the stack with trembling hands. “For… me?”

“Do what you like with them,” Harry said, careful to keep his tone indifferent. The elf couldn’t think he was being bribed. “And find something else to wear. You disgrace the House of Black with that rag.” He knew enough about house-elves from Casa Zabini and Potter Manor to say with a fair degree of certainty that a part of a noble House’s reputation lay in how it treated its house-elves, and Kreacher was a genuine disgrace. Harry only hoped that linking his appearance to the Black reputation would get through to his age-addled brain.

“Yes, young Master Potter,” Kreacher said, bowing low, only this time there was a lot less contempt and resentment in it. Not gone entirely… but this was progress.

Harry watched the old elf leave the room, clutching the stack of photographs desperately to his chest. It might be a bit harder than Harry had expected… but he could work with that.

As long as he could get Sirius to play along, anyway.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N 1: technically, in canon, Barty was 3 years younger than Sirius and 2 younger than Regulus. I’m choosing to tweak it and have Barty be 5 years younger than Sirius and Regulus 4. Sirius was born 1959, Barty 1964, and Regulus 1963. 
> 
> A/N 2: I know not much happened in this one. It was kind of necessary filler, and a bit of a pause to look at Sirius and Harry’s developing relationship, as well as Sirius’ recovery.
> 
> EDIT 5/30/18: Slight changes made to reflect an overhaul of my mental map of Grimmauld Place. For details, go to Notifications (last fic in this series) ch 4, Grimmauld Place.


	4. Magical Homes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to say a quick thank-you to everyone who's commented on the last 2 chapters and hasn't gotten a reply! Real life is picking up drastically this term and I have much less time than i'd gotten used to. Hopefully this weekend I'll get to go through and write responses. <3

Harry wrote back and forth with his friends, assuring them that he was fine, Sirius was great, and the house was horrendous so they’d have to wait before they could come visit because he didn’t want any of them bitten by anything like the snuffbox from the drawing room that turned Harry’s hand brown and crusty before Sirius healed him. Harry tucked the snuffbox away instead of getting rid of it, and did the same with three doxies and a clutch of doxy eggs and an odd blue insect whose sting made him levitate for an hour that Eriss brought him, all of which he put under stasis charms and shipped to Fred and George in a box labeled as coming from Scribblings that contained a mess of new parchment to hide its true contents. Ginny would keep quiet if she saw anything, Ron and Molly and Mr. Weasley would have no interest in a box from a writing supplies store, and Percy would take one look at the crappy quality of the parchment Harry had used and turn away in distaste.

Sirius and Kreacher still did not get along, but Harry got Sirius to gift the house-elf old pictures and clothes as they tore through the bedrooms on the third and fourth floors. They reached a truce by the end of the first week that involved Kreacher helping clean rooms Sirius was not in and making three excellent meals a day. The one point of agreement between Kreacher and Sirius was that they leave Regulus’ old room on the third floor completely untouched.

Harry got good at laundry charms, dusting charms, sterilization charms, the repairing charm, and scouring charms. Eriss caught more mice than she could eat and Harry found a pile of stiff rodent corpses under his bed every night to vanish before he went to sleep.

He wasn’t sure how to tell Sirius about Eriss.

 

Eight days after Harry moved in with Sirius, he’d unpacked a few sets of robes and several of the books he cared less about onto the shelves in his room, the only concession to being comfortable here that he would make. 12 Grimmauld Place already felt more like home than anywhere else except Hogwarts, but he couldn’t bring himself to relax so quickly. Better to keep everything in his trunk so he could book it quickly if he had to.

“Morning, Kreacher,” he said, passing the house-elf on the stairs.

Kreacher looked up from repapering the walls in medium gray with a subtle vine pattern and bowed. “Young Master,” he said. “Kreacher left breakfast in the kitchen with Master Sirius.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, and nodded at Kreacher’s new clothing. “You look much better.”

It was a plain swath of linen, white as snow and gathered toga-style at the shoulders, which the woman in the fabric shop had assured him was the traditional house-elf garb. Each shoulder was then pinned with a small medallion with the Black crest, two crossed athames and a vertical wand, engraved on it. Kreacher had been very careful to keep the linen spotlessly clean.

The elf bowed again. “Kreacher is glad the young Master approves.”

“Mhm. See you later.” Harry took off down the stairs, taking both flights between his floor and the kitchen two steps at a time.

He slipped into the kitchen where Sirius was reading the Prophet and drinking tea. “Morning,” Harry said, helping himself to scrambled eggs and toast and jam from the platter in the middle of the scarred wooden table.

“Morning,” Sirius said. “I was thinking we can get the other rooms on your floor today, make them hospitable… that way you can have some friends over if you want. And we need to take a look at the basement eventually.” They’d cleared the ground floor, the first floor drawing room, and then the third and fourth floors, and then Harry worked on the library while Sirius slept. He’d been assigned a regimen of potions from the mind healers and they made Sirius sleep half again as much as he would normally.

“Sounds good.”

A few minutes later, Sirius threw the Prophet down with a disgusted noise.

“What is it?” Harry said.

Sirius shoved the paper over to him without a word.

Harry put his fork down, picked up the paper, and unfolded it out so he could see all of the page it was open to.

 

**_BOY-WHO-LIVED SPEAKS OUT ABOUT TRIALS OF ALBUS DUMBLEDORE AND JAMES POTTER_ **

**_By Rita Skeeter_ **

_It has been a little over a week since the trial of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore rocked the foundations of wizarding Britain. Thousands of people have been shocked to hear that the hero who defeated Gellert Grindelwald has been convicted of malfeasance of office, a charge levied on those who abuse the powers granted to them as a holder of public office. Even more shocking is that Dumbledore will no longer be able to use the voting power of his family’s Wizengamot seat, and as there is no named Dumbledore heir, it seems likely that seat will remain empty for some time. Many have since expressed their grave concerns that a man so widely revered has for years been hiding that he condemned an innocent man to Azkaban for more than twelve years. A sentiment which, I assure you, this reporter shares. That Sirius Black escaped at all is shocking; that he did so with his sanity and managed to prove his innocence is nothing short of a gift from Merlin._

_However, Dumbledore has not been without his defenses. Just yesterday afternoon, a variety of Ministry personnel and_ Daily Prophet _reporters witnessed a press conference held by Julian Potter, otherwise known as the Boy Who Lived._

_“It’s just really sad to me that everyone is freaking out over this one thing,” Julian told me personally. “Professor Dumbledore did what he thought was best. It was a really hard time for everyone; I’ve studied the war against You-Know-Who my whole life and heard loads of stories from the survivors. Black fought for the Light but he was getting dangerous and lots of people were convinced it was only a matter of time until he went Dark, too. It’s not right to lock someone up for a crime they didn’t commit, but Professor Dumbledore was trying to do the right thing.”_

_The lad exhibited distress when another reporter asked whether it’s safe for Dumbledore to be Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—whether such a man is the sort of person we want watching over our children. “Professor Dumbledore is a great man, and the best Headmaster Hogwarts has ever seen!” Julian said, and added that he didn’t like anyone saying Dumbledore was unsafe or unfit for his position. “He’s always great with everyone at school and Hogwarts wouldn’t be the same without him!” was Julian’s final word on the subject._

_Julian Potter, of course, is an upstanding young man, and even though he may understand Dumbledore’s actions, it’s hardly surprising that he cannot outright defend them. A statement released by Albus Dumbledore last week doesn’t sheds a little more light on the subject. “Young Sirius was a danger to his friends and compatriots,” Dumbledore said. “It remains one of the most difficult decisions I have ever had to make, but in such a time of upheaval and chaos I felt it necessary to do what I had to for the future safety of our world.” The savior of the wizarding world also mentioned “loads of stories from the survivors” of the war with You-Know-Who that seem to have factored strongly into his belief that Black was a dangerous madman and it seemed all too easy to convince Black’s fellow Light soldiers that he’d betrayed them all._

_James Potter was onstage throughout the press conference but declined any comment on his own trial or that of his mentor and friend, Albus Dumbledore. Julian, however, had much to say on the subject of his older twin. This reporter remembers the words “He’s a bit of a prat, to be honest.” When asked about the charges levied on Lord Potter for negligence that led to the abuse of Hadrian Potter at the hands of Lily Evans-Potter’s Muggle relatives, Julian said that “Harry’s always been dramatic and attention-loving; he’s a Slytherin and you can’t trust them, they’re always out for glory. Probably he was hoping James would go to prison so Harry could inherit. I don’t believe half of it was true.”_

_While this reporter has heard that there was evidence given to the Wizengamot in memory form of the young Hadrian’s life with the Muggles, any memories from early childhood are suspect and such evidence is not made public. It’s difficult to say, dear readers, who is in the right, but it does seem that the case against James Potter may not be nearly as ironclad as many have assumed._

Harry breathed in and out through his nose and laid the paper on the table.

“It’s nicely done,” he said, glaring at the paper, breakfast forgotten.

“Nicely done?” Sirius shouted. “How can you—she’s a conniving snake!”

Harry raised an eyebrow.

“Sorry,” Sirius muttered. “Old habits.”

“She’s an incredible writer. Succinct, persuasive,” Harry said, deciding to ignore the snake comment. “She manages to smoothly imply you’re dangerous and Dark, get people thinking maybe Dumbledore was right even if he acted against the law, paint me as an attention pig prone to lying.” _And it doesn’t say great things about the Prophet or this world in general if they just let a dig like that about Slytherins go uncontested._ “I didn’t mean I agree with her, just that it accomplishes her goals quite nicely.” He tapped the table. “I’m going to have to keep an eye on this Skeeter woman. She seems to write a lot of the Prophet’s big scandal pieces.”

“Ridiculous, is what she is,” Sirius said, scowling at the paper.

“Well,” Harry said, grinning. “Technically you _did_ use Dark magic. How many people saw it?”

Sirius shrugged. Something haunted came back to his eyes as he remembered, just like it did whenever Harry asked him to talk about the war or Azkaban. This time, though it may have been the warm light of the fireplace and the wizard flame glowing steadily and brightly around the walls, it wasn’t as bad as it had been. “Not… not that many. Marlene and I both started dabbling a bit. I think… well, she—she died before she could experiment with more than some middling Gray spells. Your mum… she knew. She asked me to teach her. We had to stop the sessions because of you and Jules being born, and of course your dad didn’t know anything about her learning Dark magic. Aside from that… Alastor Moody probably had an idea, he’s an Auror, retired now probably, with a magical eye that can see three hundred sixty degrees. Probably a fair number in the Auror department may have seen me cast something I shouldn’t in the heat of battle. It was chaos, Harry—raids and fear and sneak attacks in the night. Hard to tell who knew what, or who was dead, or who was at risk—you had to always be careful of Polyjuice; there were endless failsafes and identity checks…”

“So loads of rumors, maybe, but few people would know for sure that you did some Dark magic,” Harry said. “And several of the few are dead now. We should be fine, then. They can whisper all they like but they’ve got no proof, and after the first go ‘round there’s too many eyes on you for Dumbledore to do what he did last time. Not to mention, no wartime chaos to hide the lack of a trial in.”

“True.” Sirius took a deep breath. “I still don’t like it.”

“No one expects you to,” Harry said. It was probably time for a change of subject. “I’ve been invited over to Neville’s house in two days; a whole group of us are going. Neville said his gran would love to have you for tea if you’d like, and then I might stay a night or two. Is that all right?”

“Completely,” Sirius said. “I meant it when I said I wouldn’t try to restrict your friends. Who all will be there?”

Harry thought back to the letter Neville’s family owl, Helen, had delivered the night before. “Er… Theo, Blaise, Pansy, Luna Lovegood, Daphne, hopefully Hermione if her parents let her get away. Justin’s in South Africa with his parents and siblings. Some kind of business trip of his mum’s that they turned into a family vacation.”

“Sounds fun,” Sirius said. He hesitated. “Have you… have you ever met Theo’s dad? Lord Nott?”

“Once,” Harry said. “Well, once before the trials. At the end of last year in the hospital wing.”

“How does Theo talk about him?”

Harry considered this. Neither of them talked overmuch about their families; it was one of the reasons he and Theo understood each other so well. Daphne and Pansy and even Blaise shared stories about their parents and aunts and uncles and grandparents with relative ease. Harry and Theo kept quiet. “Theo makes it sound like he’s powerful, not easy to cross, but—when it comes up, he seems a pretty decent father. Neville and I asked once if Lord Nott’s ever been… well, abusive. Theo was really firm about saying no.”

“He seemed cold in the hospital wing,” Sirius said.

Harry snorted. “Would your parents have openly expressed affection in front of a pack of Gryffindors they hated?”

“They never expressed affection for me, period.”

“Fine, your brother then.”

Sirius’ nose wrinkled, but he nodded. “Fair point.”

Harry resolved to ask him about Eriss after he got back from Neville’s. “You’ll come to tea, then? I was planning to send a reply over after breakfast.”

“I’d love to,” Sirius said. “It’s been a bit tough staying cooped up in here.”

“Healer Parkinson threatened to come over and lock you in himself if you didn’t follow their instructions,” Harry reminded him. “Or forcibly take you back to the mind ward.”

Sirius grimaced. “Why do you think I’ve been so agreeable? Dammit. First thing I’m doing when they let me off the hook is go get my bike back from Hagrid.”

“The motorcycle’s yours?” Harry blurted. That made _so much sense._

“Your mum introduced me to some Muggle things,” Sirius said, his grimace turning to a grin. It transformed his face completely, from the ragged, dark-edged survivor back to something closer to the boyish, mischievous young man he’d been in the pictures of James’ sixth and seventh years, crackling with life. “I got the bike when I was fifteen, started tinkering around with it.”

“Maybe you should look into some other things,” Harry suggested. “Might be nice to have something to do. If you like cars and such—they’ve got probably lots nicer models now than when you were in school.”

Sirius perked up a bit. “Yeah, probably. Does Arthur still have that weird fascination with Muggles?”

“Yes,” Harry said. “He had a flying car. Remember I mentioned it when I was telling you about second year?”

“The one Jules and Ronald flew into the Whomping Willow?” Sirius said. “Didn’t you say it got lost in the Forbidden Forest?”

Harry smirked, remembering that entire day. “Yep. I wouldn’t go to him, though. His interest is endearing at first but it’s honestly kind of pathetic how he just obsesses from afar and never actually seeks out anyone who could answer his questions. He thought rubber ducks were some kind of religious phenomenon.” Which reminded Harry that he needed to start in on the books he’d gotten at Knockturn about wizarding religious rites in England, and go through the Black library for more, and maybe find a time to ask Sirius. It seemed like a topic with a lot of baggage, though, so he’d probably wait until they were on better footing and Sirius was in a better headspace.

“Damn,” Sirius said. “Guess I’ll just have to find a magazine…”

“You could probably do some kind of course at an auto shop,” Harry said. “I’m sure they have those kinds of things. I should probably help you figure out Muggle clothes, though.”

“Probably,” Sirius said. “The one time I tried to dress myself in Muggle stuff on my own, your mum laughed so hard she cried. She never did tell me what was so strange about the outfit.”

Harry wished someone had thought to take pictures of that moment. “Go swing by a convenience store or something and find some auto magazines,” he suggested. “I’d like an hour or two off cleaning to read, anyway.”

“You’re sure you’re okay on your own?” Sirius checked.

“Very,” Harry said, smirking. “Besides, the healers said going for walks and spending some time alone to relax would help you. You could even go partway as a Grim if you felt like it.”

Sirius started to smile, too. “That does sound like a decent morning… Wait, do you have any Muggle money?”

“Your Gringotts purse should give you some,” Harry said. “Mine does, anyway.”

“Huh,” Sirius said. “That’s new. Will you check over my clothes before you go? I have some old things your mum helped me pick out in a trunk upstairs, but—I don’t know, fashions might have changed…”

“Sure thing.”

Harry went and silenced the portrait of Walburga Black and stared at her for a few seconds while she shrieked and howled uselessly. Somehow he didn’t think pointing out that his mum had been good enough for Voldemort to recruit wouldn’t work as well on an insane portrait as it had on Kreacher, who was a bit senile from age but not stupid or actually crazy.

Which, now that he thought about it, was _extremely_ odd. Harry wanted to slap himself for not thinking of it before. Why in Merlin’s name would a blood supremacist asshole like Voldemort have gone around murdering Muggle-borns only to try and recruit one? Sure, Lily Evans-Potter had been an exceptionally smart and capable witch, but the ideology Jules and James and Dumbledore and Lupin and the rest of that lot talked about didn’t leave much room for exceptions to its rules.

A question for another time. He eyed the portrait. “If you don’t settle down, we’re going to get rid of you,” he said quietly.

Walburga rolled her eyes and made obscene gestures and faces.

“Now, that’s really just tasteless,” Harry said. “Honestly, Sirius talks like you love your high society, should you even know gestures like those?”

She did the same one, and then another, even more vulgar. Then she sat back with a smug face.

“You think we can’t get you down, don’t you?” Harry said. He tilted his head and watched her. It wasn’t quite as good as a real person… but close enough.

After reading that article, he found himself wanting to hurt someone. Found himself needing somewhere to channel his anger.

“You’re wrong,” he said softly. “We might not be able to undo the Permanent Sticking Charm, you might have been clever enough to work it through the wallpaper and into the wood itself, the wards might stop us from knocking that wall down… We thought about all the options, you know. Or, well, Sirius did. Your son that you cast out and tried to disgrace.” He laughed. “I’m sure you loved that old Lord Arcturus wouldn’t disown Sirius and wrote _you_ and _your_ husband out of the line of succession instead… Anyway. We’ll get you down, you obscene, unstable old hag, and it won’t be clever magic that does it. We’ll use Muggle chemicals and strip the paint off that frame, and with it, the little bit of semiconscious reflection of Walburga Black that’s all that’s left of her.”

The portrait looked smug, then furious, then horrified as he spoke. She tried and failed to stand up, shouting at him, painted spittle flying, every inch of the painting so lifelike Harry half expected her to leap out of the wall and strike him. But that was ridiculous. He knew her anger was born of fear and he only smiled wider, enjoying the power he had over this scrap of a person.

“It’ll be the Muggles you hate so much that help us get you down from there,” he went on, thoughtfully, like he was discussing when to schedule a study group meeting. “Lovely bit of poetic irony, wouldn’t you agree? And once we erase _you_ , well—you linked the Sticking Charm to the Homunculus Charm that makes you Walburga Black. We’ll take the frame down and Kreacher will repaper the walls and it’ll be like you never existed.” She was horrified now, sitting back, wordless, hands grasping the arms of her painted armchair like claws. “And you can cease existing knowing that the son you hated is Lord Black and living in your family home and pretty soon I’ll be bringing my Mudblood and blood traitor friends over to visit and eat off your fine china.”

He leaned back on the opposite wall and watched the old bat scream and howl. She was so very _afraid_ , and her terror became more piercing thanks to her absolute helplessness. He noted that portraits were sentient enough to feel fear this strong and realized after several minutes of this that there was a little smile playing about his lips.

Harry only flicked his wand to yank the curtains shut and walked away when he heard Sirius calling his name from the third floor.

 

The Floo deposited Harry neatly in the front hall of Longbottom Manor. He’d gotten pretty good at keeping his balance while stepping in and out of magically linked fireplaces, and there was only a little bit of ash on his tailored burgundy summer robe, worn closed with only an undershirt and boxers underneath, when he stopped to check himself over.

“Harry!”

Harry looked up, and grinned. “Neville, hi. How’ve you been?”

“Pretty good,” Neville said. “Just got back, I have a load of new plants and Gran said we can add a greenhouse since my grades were so good last year! Thanks for that, by the way. I’d never have passed Potions if not for you.”

“And I wouldn’t have done nearly as well in Herbology if not for you,” Harry said. “Who else is here so far?”

“No one, you’re the first.”

The fireplace _whooshed_ again, and Sirius stepped out, ducking slightly. He shook his hair out of his face and stuck a hand out. “Heir Longbottom, I presume?”

“Yep,” Neville said, shaking his hand. “Neville, please, Lord Black.”

Sirius grinned. “Okay, but you have to call me Sirius.”

“All right. Gran’s in the sun room,” Neville said. “This way.”

Harry and Sirius walked with him. Harry looked around with interest. While Potter Manor was all dark wood and red and gold accents, Longbottom Manor was done in beige, rose gold, ivory, and cream. It was much more open and seemed better illuminated than it should be given that they were in an interior corridor. Beautiful, really, and wonderfully tasteful.

“You look a lot better,” Neville said.

“I should hope so,” Sirius said. “It’s amazing what a few weeks of solid food and running water will do for you. What are you kids planning on doing today and tomorrow?”

“Er—just hanging out, really,” Neville said. He was blushing. Harry bit back amusement at Neville’s transparency. It was so _obvious_ that he was hiding something. “We like—we like, you know, spending time with each other over the summers… And it’s the first time we’ve gotten Harry this early in—early in the year, you know, and—”

“You can stop, Nev,” Harry said, smirking. “I’ve been using magic around the house for weeks, Sirius isn’t going to freak out.” He turned to his godfather. “We have a bit of an informal dueling club that meets Fridays during the school year, and we like to keep in practice over the summer. Not just dueling, obviously, other things too, but that’s the most—interesting part.”

“I won’t say a word,” Sirius said, grinning his reckless Gryffindor grin. “Does Augusta know?”

“No,” Neville said, looking briefly and intensely nervous.

Sirius mimed spelling his lips shut.

Neville pushed open a set of white double doors with gold handles. Harry barely managed to keep his composure as he and Sirius followed into the room on the other side. The walls and ceiling were made entirely of glass, and on the ceiling it was etched and carved in what he thought were fractal patterns that split the light and sent it dancing around the room in a never-ending rainbow. The one interior wall, facing the house, was pure white, and the floor was done in a tile mosaic of kaleidoscopic patterns.

Harry blinked and focused on the mosaic. It was _moving_.

Somehow—magic probably—the crazy, beautiful, bouncing light managed not to be too bright or obscure his vision in any way. Four clusters of white sofas and latticed metal tables painted white were set around the room. Augusta Longbottom and a full tea service waited at the farthest one from the door; she was seated facing away from them, looking out the window over the rolling green fields of her estate.

“Gran,” Neville said.

Lady Longbottom turned, and rose with all her considerable dignity. “Lord Black,” she said. “Mr. Potter. It’s a pleasure to have you.”

“Thank you for the invitation, Lady Longbottom,” Sirius said. “And please call me Sirius. Lord Black makes me think of my grandfather.”

“Augusta, then,” Lady Augusta said, shaking his hand firmly. “Please, sit. Neville, why don’t you and Harry join us until the rest of your friends arrive?”

“Okay,” Neville said. Harry considered him and realized this was by far the most relaxed he’d ever seen Neville in his grandmother’s presence, and the least overbearing Augusta had ever been. He and Neville took seats at the table.

“Excellent.” Augusta actually _smirked_ at them. “I except you all to stick to spells whose effects you can heal, and don’t do any permanent damage to the house.”

Neville sputtered. Harry’s lips twitched. Sirius burst out laughing. “I think she knows, Neville,” Harry stage whispered.

“You don’t say,” Neville said, kicking Harry’s ankle under the table. “Yes, Gran.”

“Thank you for your hospitality, Lady Augusta,” Harry said politely.

“Of course, Mr. Potter. How do you like your tea?” Augusta snapped her fingers. A house-elf popped into the room at her elbow and bowed politely. It was bald like all house-elves were but there was something distinctly feminine about its face. Harry noted the toga similar to Kreacher’s, fastened with a medallion at one shoulder instead of both.

“Harry, please. Just a bit of milk,” Harry said.

The house-elf snapped her fingers and the tea service started floating through the air, preparing Harry’s teacup. Sirius told the elf his preference too, and she seemed to know Neville and Augusta’s already. He remembered from Matteo’s lessons that when some families hosted the lord or lady served tea, but it was a mark of pride to use a house-elf, as that indicated that the host family treated their elves well and trusted them in turn to serve the food. He made a mental note that someone would have to explain that to Hermione. If Harry knew her even a little bit, she was going to go off on a tear about slavery and injustice the second she realized exactly how integral house-elves were to wizarding society.

That gave him pause as he lifted his teacup. Did Hermione even know it was house-elves who did the cooking and cleaning and laundry at Hogwarts?

He smirked into his teacup before taking a sip. Harry really didn’t think so. _That_ was going to be an entertaining conversation.

“How have you been?” Augusta asked Sirius. “I can’t imagine the transition has been easy for you.”

“It hasn’t,” Sirius admitted. “This is excellent, thank you,” he added to the house-elf.

“Lissa is proud to serve the House of Longbottom, sirs,” the elf said, bowing. “Is there anything else you be wanting?”

“Thank you, Lissa, that’s enough for now,” Augusta said.

The elf bowed once more and popped away.

“You have a lovely manor,” Sirius said. “My mum could’ve taken some tips, her idea of decoration was actively dangerous cursed objects we all had to pretend looked nice on the shelf.”

Augusta smiled. “Yes, that fits with my memories of dear old Walburga. I presume you’ve had to put in some work to make the place hospitable.”

“Loads,” Sirius said.

“I’ve gotten really good at cleaning charms,” Harry added. “I could probably cast Scourgify in my sleep at this point.”

“Have you finished?” Augusta said.

“All but the basement and the first floor potions laboratory,” Sirius said. “They’re both filled with absolute nastiness. I haven’t even opened the basement door yet.”

“There was a boggart in the drawing room,” Harry said. “Kingsley Shacklebolt dropped by to help us get rid of it.” He hadn’t been allowed to be there, so he didn’t know who’d gotten rid of it, or what their boggart looked like, which irritated him. Knowing anyone’s greatest fear was useful leverage.

Augusta shook her head. “Such a sad state of affairs. Grimmauld Place was such a delight when I was young and Arcturus and Melania were in charge.”

“I don’t envy you that, Harry,” Neville said with feeling.

Harry shrugged. “It’s been good charms practice if nothing else. I might just surprise Flitwick this year. Charms is my hardest class,” he explained to Augusta.

“I hear you’re something of a transfiguration prodigy,” Augusta said.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Harry said, smiling. No need for her to know he was currently studying NEWT-level transfiguration theory and planning to attempt some rudimentary self-transfiguration this summer, which was a seventh-year topic. “Transfiguration is more of an exercise in will than anything else, which helps.”

“Very true. Bit like your father,” Augusta said. “Frank always came home talking about James Potter and Sirius Black trouncing him in McGonagall’s class. Lucky you seem not to have inherited much else from him. Frank never liked James much.”

“Really?” Sirius said, interest obviously piqued. “He was never anything but civil to us…”

“Oh, he liked _you_ ,” Augusta said. “Didn’t care much for James, though.”

“Why not?” Neville asked. Harry flashed him a quick, sharp smile of gratitude when neither of the adults was looking.

Augusta sipped her tea. “He said both you, Sirius, and James were arrogant and self-centered, but that Sirius at least was driven. James just loafed about and relied on Remus Lupin to get him through his exams.”

Harry was strongly reminded of Jules’ dependence on Dean Thomas and Ernie Macmillan when exam time rolled around.

“Huh,” Sirius said. “I’d never have guessed… He _was_ always after us for picking on Sniv—Snape, I guess.”

“He called you bullies,” Augusta cheerfully agreed. Only three years in Slytherin kept Harry from choking on his tea. He was definitely starting to understand why Neville had been so cowed by her.

Sirius winced. “I… suppose we could be called that. He wasn’t innocent, though,” he added. “James was throwing trip jinxes while Snape was practicing the Dark Arts and creating spells that could kill people.”

“Oh, I’m not defending him,” Augusta said. “Frank had plenty to say about Severus Snape. So did Alice when she started coming around. Why Albus lets him teach I haven’t the faintest idea. The man’s more suited to be shoved away in a tower somewhere he can invent noxious brews and write groundbreaking potions papers without frightening first-years away from his subject.” She paused with her teacup halfway to her lips. “And Albus should be in a tower next door.”

Sirius and Harry both smirked, though Harry wiped his face blank after a second or so and Sirius didn’t bother.

“You had to get a wand, didn’t you?” Neville asked Sirius suddenly. Harry had to bite back a snicker. His friend was _not_ subtle. At least not in Slytherin terms. “What was that like, doing it as an adult instead of as a kid?”

“Strange,” Sirius admitted. “My first wand took me absolutely ages to find. This time was… easier, at least.”

“What is it?” Neville said.

Sirius hesitated. “Yew and dragon heartstring.”

Harry watched Neville and Augusta closely. Neither of them seemed to notice or care that the wand was yew. Good sign.

“Powerful wand,” Augusta said approvingly. “You should be able to do some excellent magic with this.”

“I hope so,” Sirius said. “It’s worked very well for me so far. Bit strange, having to learn a new one, and Ollivander said it can be difficult to match a wand to a wizard who’s already been chosen by a different one, but—my old wand snapped, so he thought that might have helped.”

“It certainly is useful to use a wand that’s chosen you,” Harry mused. “I tried using my dad’s a bit the summer before Hogwarts. Never worked well. Nor for Jules.”

Sirius nodded. “We used to practice with our parents’ wands as children. Grandfather hated that we can’t give children wands to start them learning magic earlier, teach them to defend themselves… They didn’t want to send us off to school knowing _nothing_. Once I got my own wand, it was—it was like a river turned to a flood.” He laughed a bit. “Sorry, I know that’s melodramatic…”

“How fascinating. I can’t say I’ve ever used a wand other than my own, but the Selwyns have often passed family wands down.” Augusta swirled her teacup slightly.

Harry kicked Neville under the table.

Neville twitched and looked at Harry in confusion.

Harry raised an eyebrow and sent him a very pointed glare, throwing subtlety to the four winds. _Gryffindors._

Neville’s eyes got comically wide with understanding for a second before he got himself under control. “Maybe it would help my wandwork if I had a wand that chose me,” he said. Harry had to give him credit; Neville managed to sound fairly casual.

“It’s a tradition of my family and yours to pass on family wands,” Augusta said stiffly. “And an honor to carry a wand of such a wizard as Frank Longbottom.”

“But it never chose me,” Neville said. Harry could see how nervous he was, see how his friend was struggling again with the words that had been coming so much easier to him of late, and he reached out a foot under the table again, this time to give what he hoped was a sort of encouraging nudge to Neville’s shin. “I—it—family wands _sometimes_ choose a descendant, but—but it’s not always. And—I can put Dad’s wand up on a—on a stand or something, and honor him by using my own—own wand to be the best wizard I c-can.”

Augusta raised one of her perfectly shaped steel gray eyebrows. “Neville, you could have simply _said_ Frank’s wand didn’t choose you.”

Neville’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Harry concealed his surprise and he almost wanted to laugh, which was odd because he really did not like laughing in front of people. This was all a simple misunderstanding? Augusta just hadn’t _known?_

“Wha—whenever I brought it up you just talked about how great an honor it was!” Neville said, surprised into eloquence.

Harry met Sirius’ eyes and knew they were both struggling not to laugh. Harry knew it wasn’t even a laughing matter; this had given Neville self-esteem issues and problems with his grades and cost him House points—but it was funny in a horrible, helpless way.

 “Yes,” Augusta said, as collected as any Slytherin. Harry was definitely forming a very good opinion of Neville’s grandmother. “And it would indeed be a great honor had your father’s wand truly chosen you, as I _thought_ it did.” She paused. “Was this your uncle Algie’s doing?”

“He… seemed to think you’d be mad at me,” Neville admitted.

“That moron,” Augusta muttered, and turned to Sirius and Harry. “Algernon is my late husband Bradley’s younger brother,” she said imperiously.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Nev, he’s the one that dropped you out a window, right?”

“Yes,” Neville said, wincing.

“And the whole family was delighted to learn he wasn’t a Squib, but the fact remained that my brother-in-law hung my son headfirst out a window, and he’d have likely died if he _had_ been a Squib,” Augusta said. “I haven’t let him in the manor since then.”

“Oh,” Neville said. “I thought he just didn’t like me…”

“By Morgana, Neville,” Augusta said.

 “Well, _you_ could’ve told me…” Neville said with a weak grin.

Augusta sighed. “I do apologize for that. We’ll go to Ollivander’s after your friends all leave.”

Neville looked floored and excited by his sudden good fortune. Harry wanted to drop his face into his hands. His friend was just so _oblivious_ sometimes. And apparently so was Augusta. He kind of wanted to slap both of them, and really hoped this would do something to clear up the Longbottom family’s apparent issues with communication.

There was a brief pause.

“That was cleared up quickly,” Sirius said.

The next second, he and Neville were both cracking up, while Augusta smiled in a sort of helpless amusement.

Lissa the house-elf popped back in, and Harry thanked Merlin for her timing. “Mr. Nott is here,” she said.

“Neville, Harry, why don’t you go join your friends,” Augusta said. “Sirius and I will chat for a bit.”

 _Good luck_ , Harry mouthed to Sirius as he rose. His back was to Augusta but Sirius’ wasn’t and Sirius couldn’t respond in the slightest besides a rude gesture where the table blocked Augusta’s line of sight. Snickering, Harry followed Neville out of the room.

“Why’s Luna coming?” he muttered as soon as the door closed.

Neville frowned. “She’s… Well—don’t get mad, but—sometimes last year I’d tell her the weekday password to the Knights Room and let her use it when the rest of us were busy… She needed somewhere to go and get away from her House, you know? They don’t… exactly treat her the best.”

“What about Lisa and Sue and Anthony?” Harry said. He and his Ravenclaw friends hadn’t been as close after their long isolation in second year, but they were still on good terms and he’d exchanged a few letters with all of them…

“They’re a year older,” Neville said. He still looked a bit nervous that Harry was going to blow up over giving away the password. “And you know Ravenclaws, they get completely lost in their projects and they tend not to notice—to notice people.”

“I’m not pissed about the password thing, Neville,” Harry said. Neville’s shoulders slumped with relief right before Harry added, “But don’t do that without asking me first in the future. We’ve got some sensitive stuff in there.”

Neville bit his lip. “Yeah, don’t worry, I won’t—it won’t happen again.”

“It’s fine,” Harry said. “It’s Luna, I trust her. More or less. I thought she was part of Ginny’s crowd?”

“She was,” Neville said. “I mean _is_. But I think they don’t—they move too fast, if that makes sense? She thinks in—different ways. She’ll get sidetracked thinking about some translation of Beowulf she’s working on and blink and look up and they’re on the other side of the yard flying or something. They forget about her. I thought it might help…”

Harry nodded. “Good idea.”

After a second’s consideration, Harry reached over and clapped Neville on the shoulder like he’d seen the Quidditch guys do sometimes. Every step of the movement felt awkward but Harry imitated his memories of Marcus Flint as closely as he could and Neville cast off his nervousness and grinned almost immediately, so Harry must have gotten something right.

    “Pretty house, Nev,” Theo said as soon as they walked back into the front hall. “I can’t wait to set it on fire.”

“No fires,” Neville said. “Gran said no spells we can’t heal and don’t damage the house.”

“You _told_ her?” Theo said.

“She knew,” Harry said, grinning at his best friend. Neither of them was a hugger but they didn’t need hugs to communicate being glad to see each other. “Somehow.”

“Good one, Neville,” Theo said.

The fire whooshed again, and Blaise stepped out a second later, fastidiously brushing ash off his robes. As usual, he was perfectly put together and wearing an expression of glorious disdain, as if everything was beneath him.

“So lovely that you deigned to join us,” Theo said.

Blaise sniffed. “Yes, you should all greatly appreciate my presence.”

“We greatly appreciate you acting as a dummy to practice new spells on,” Harry said.

Blaise glared at him.

“Guess what…” Neville said, grinning.

“Guessing games are beneath me,” Blaise said.

Theo angled his head. “Not me… hmmm, there’s an army of Inferi stored in your basement and we’re going to march them on Hogwarts and kill Dumbledore?”

“You have a scary mind,” Neville told him.

Harry raised an eyebrow while Theo scoffed.

“Are you just now noticing this?” Theo said.

“No… and no, that’s not it.”

“Just tell them,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. “This is painful.”

Neville _bounced._ “I’m getting a new wand!”

Blink. Pause.

“Congratulations, mate,” Theo said. “When? How’d you get your gran to agree to that one?”

Neville launched into the story, Harry interjecting with how he’d had to kick Neville under the table to get him to take advantage of the opening, and Daphne and Hermione and Pansy arrived all in sequence, bickering, since they’d gone to Pansy’s for some kind of girls’ brunch together, and Neville had to start over.

He was just finishing up when the Floo flared up a third time and Luna Lovegood stepped out, wearing a crown of extremely thorny vines woven together. Harry tried not to laugh. He doubted any of his friends would be all that aware of Christian myth… except maybe Luna. She was always reading, Muggle books too, and it would be just like her to decide to reference one of the darkest moments in the history of one of the world’s most influential religious figures.

“Hello,” she said, smiling at all of them. “Thank you for inviting me, Neville.”

“Mhm,” Neville said. Was he _blushing_? Harry wasn’t an idiot; he’d been watching the older students long enough to see how they got around fourth or fifth year… and he’d be lying if he said he never noticed the curve of Daphne’s hip or the way the light caught Pansy’s hair. But still. How _interesting._

Blaise raised an eyebrow; clearly he’d noticed it too. He and Harry exchanged a look that said _we need to see where this goes_.

“Can you duel?” Theo said, watching Luna with the kind of intense curiosity that would make most people who knew him very nervous.

Luna just blinked at him. “It’s not legal to use magic at home,” she said. “The Ministry uses pithers to track underage magic.”

“We know,” Blaise said. “Wait, what?”

Harry, who had spent more time with Luna than the others thanks to her occasional visit to the Weasleys’, had to fight to keep his amusement off his face.

“We’re… fine here,” Neville said. “They can’t track us.”

“All right, then,” Luna said. “I read about a shielding technique a few weeks ago I’d like to try…”

Hermione was staring at Luna like she was a book written just slightly differently from normal English and Hermione couldn’t tell if its contents were brilliant or insane.

She proved herself to be—well, actually, both, when they got to Neville’s gran’s well-appointed dueling hall. Luna walked out to the middle of the floor, sliced the back of her arm with a cutting curse, painted a circle of runes on the marble in her own blood, and sat down in the middle while she healed her wound.

Blaise, Neville, Daphne, and Pansy stared at her like she was insane. Harry paced a slow circle, eyes narrowed as he deciphered her runes upside down. This was nothing like the runic arrays they were learning in class, or like he’d read about… but there _was_ that book from Knockturn that talked about runes being like any other puzzle in that you could change them all you liked, if you survived the attempt…

“Oh,” Hermione said at the same time as Theo’s eyebrows shot up toward his hairline.

“Did you come up with this yourself?” Harry asked Luna.

She looked at him like she was struggling to focus on something outside her own head. “The runes? No, they’re a combination of Old Futhark and runes from a Muggle fiction novel.”

“The array,” Harry said patiently. “The spell.”

“Oh. Yes.” She shrugged. “You can test it if you like. I’d prefer that, actually.”

Harry shot off a silent Body-Bind. It hit the invisible dome created by Luna’s circle and fizzled out. The runes seemed to pulse a bit.

“It _works_ ,” Hermione said. “It absorbs magical energy and puts it back into the spell—but it shouldn’t—those aren’t _normal_ runes—and that was blood magic!”

“You won’t get far blindly following the _rules_ ,” Blaise said, stalking forward. He shot off two Jelly-Legs jinxes in quick succession. Instead of ricocheting, they were absorbed just like Harry’s spell. “Why do you think Harry trounces you in Potions every year? He studies and makes changes and experiments and makes the potions better.”

“Magic is just magic,” Luna said. She got a bit of extra blood on her finger, frowned at the runes, and made a slight tweak to one by her left foot. “What matters is how you use it. I can teach you.”

Hermione fired off her own spell, a Tickling Charm. It was absorbed, too. “Please,” she said.

They stood around Luna and took turns firing off spells. Harry quickly lost patience with low-power jinxes—clearly Luna’s invented runic shield could handle those—and he nailed her with a _“Stupefy!”_

The runes pulsed, but this time the energy overloaded and they burned away with a hiss. Luna collapsed back on the ground, unconscious.

“Harry!” Neville said.

“She’ll be fine. _Renervate.”_ Harry pointed his wand at her again.

Luna blinked and sat up. “I didn’t know you could cast the Stunning Charm, Harry.”

“Some of the portraits in Sirius’ house are nasty,” Harry said. “It’s useful to shut them up.”

“I see.” Luna smiled as she looked at where her runes had been. “I suppose I need to make some changes.”

“We should see if those could be adapted for a battle shield,” Daphne said, sitting down next to Luna. “A shield that absorbs the energy of hostile spells and puts it back into protection—”

“You could draw it on the ground beforehand but that wouldn’t be very useful,” Theo said.

Blaise cocked his head. “Unless you knew you wouldn’t have to move—just stand in one place the whole time…”

“Maybe sink the runes into an item of clothing,” Harry suggested. “A cloak, or a hat. Maybe even your wand.”

Hermione yanked out a spiral-bound notebook and a gel pen. “Luna, can you show me the runic array? And did you mean Tolkien’s fantasy language? How can you use that to make a runespell? It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Yes, it does,” Luna said serenely, taking the pen and notebook. “It’s a language like any other. As long as you know what the runes mean and what you want them to do and the connection between the meaning and the outcome, it will work.”

Hermione blinked. Harry could practically see her reordering things in her mental library. He was doing much the same thing, although it wasn’t nearly as difficult for him or Theo to assimilate this new knowledge as it was for Hermione.

 

Lissa found them four hours later. Harry, Neville, Theo, and Hermione were reading; Daphne had consented to Luna braiding her hair up into a crown with conjured flowers in it; Pansy and Blaise were halfheartedly bickering about the Weird Sisters’ latest song. They all started a bit when the house-elf popped into the sitting room they’d taken over.

“Master Neville,” she said with a slight bow. “Honored guests. Mistress is wanting to see you all for dinner in thirty minutes.”

“Thanks, Lissa,” Neville said.

The elf half-bowed and disappeared.

“You use house-elves?” Hermione sat up, glaring at Neville. “It’s slavery!”

“No, it’s—no, it’s not,” Neville said, looking distinctly alarmed. “They like serving…”

“Because they’ve been _brainwashed!”_

“Hermione, calm down,” Harry said lazily. He wasn’t about to let her ruin his good mood. “They consider it an honor to serve wizarding families well, and old families gain respect and prestige for treating their elves well and having a good relationship with them.”

“Didn’t the Greengrasses cover this?” Blaise said with a pointed look at Daphne.

The icy blond girl huffed. “We didn’t have time to cover _four years_ of etiquette and cultural lessons in one bloody day, Zabini.”

“It’s not right,” Hermione muttered.

“Leave it,” Theo advised her bluntly. “You’ll insult them if you go ‘round telling them they should demand wages or some nonsense, and then you won’t get as good food.”

Hermione crossed her arms mutinously.

Hell. She wasn’t going to leave this alone, not with only their word. Harry set his book aside. “Neville, tell me you have a family library.”

“Of course,” Neville said.

“Can we send her there to find some books on house-elf customs?”

Hermione sat up straighter. “I would love to.”

“Go for it,” Neville said. He snapped his fingers, and a different house-elf popped in at his elbow.

Hermione glared at them both. Harry kept his face blank; Pansy and Theo were both biting their lips to hold back laughter, and Daphne rolled her eyes. Luna just kept braiding Daphne’s hair.

“Show Hermione the library, please,” Neville said.

The new elf nodded his head. “Of course. This way, miss,” he said, already walking out of the room.

“You are all terrible,” Hermione complained, sweeping them with a fierce glare, and following him, bushy hair practically crackling with rage.

Theo rolled over and stole one of the cushions Hermione had been leaning on as she read. “Ten galleons says she’s finished at least one of them by bedtime tonight.”

“Fifteen galleons she stays up to finish two of them,” Pansy said.

Harry smirked and sat that one out.

 

Pansy won the bet.

 


	5. Chapter 5

“So,” Sirius said.

Harry looked around the room. “Yeah, this is every bit as bad as you said. Maybe worse.”

It was the first time either of them had ever gone into the potions laboratory on the first floor. Why they’d decided to put it on the same floor as the drawing room Harry hadn’t the faintest idea, except maybe that the second, third, and fourth floors were bedrooms and bathrooms and studies with nowhere large enough for a laboratory. He thanked Merlin it wasn’t in the basement. Harry spent enough time brewing in dark, dank dungeons at school thanks to Snape’s melodramatic bent. He’d much rather have natural light and decent ventilation, thanks.

Sirius prodded at one of the shelves with distaste. Harry recognized the system of tin storage containers with sealable lids; they came in a number of shapes and sizes for various ingredients, and sat on a set of shelves designed to move and shift for the potioner’s personal preference. The raised counter in the center of the room had a marble top covered with a special glaze designed to be completely nonreactive, not contaminate anything, and allow nothing to be absorbed so cleanup was easy. Large windows covered one wall, each of which had shelves across it for small potted plants, providing easy access to fresh ingredients. The third wall, the one not covered by the fancy customizable storage system, had another counter running its length, with a massive sink in the middle. Harry counted seven taps and a massive industrial-looking drain with what appeared to be blades hidden a few inches down.

The only problem was that it was completely overgrown.

Several plants had been left on the shelves. Somehow they’d gotten the absolute minimum of water to survive in here; twisted and blackened and shriveled but wild, they covered the floor and were growing up the central counter. Filaments reached up and into many of the covered potions jars, probably getting nourishment from the remains of whatever ingredients had been in here. It smelled musty and like the air was full of spores with a strong and unpleasant side of rot and decay.

“Everything in the bins is rotten and unusable,” Sirius said. “I checked one of them and almost passed out from the smell. I can’t even _identify_ this plant but I’m pretty sure it needs to be burned.”

“It looks… malevolent,” Harry said, nudging it cautiously with his toe. A visible shudder ran through all the vines in the room. He stepped back. Any plant that had first of all been _grown_ in a Black family laboratory and then lived uncontrolled for about a decade off the remains of rotting magical potions ingredients was something to be wary of.  

 _“_ Watch this. _Incendio,”_ Sirius said.

The fire didn’t catch.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “That’s odd.”

“Yep. Tried it when I first came in here. Whatever this thing is, it’s not going to be easy to get rid of.”

“Maybe Neville and Theo’d like a crack at it,” Harry said. “If nothing else, to study, maybe take a cutting home before we hire someone to come in and sort out this entire mess.”

“You think they can handle it?” Sirius said doubtfully.

Harry laughed. “They’ve been sneaking into Greenhouse Four at Hogwarts since our second year. They’ll be fine.”

Sirius shrugged. “All right, invite them over. Neville’s probably eager to show off his new wand anyway.”

“He wrote me about it,” Harry said, grinning. “Apparently he tried to show off at breakfast yesterday morning, first day after he got it and all, and cast _aguamenti_ to fill the water pitcher. Soaked the entire meal, himself, and Augusta.”

“Wish I could’ve seen that. Was she mad?”

“Neville made it sound like she was happy, actually. She’d rather he be screwing up because he’s putting too much power into his spells than not enough. At least he’s got the summer to sort it out.”

Sirius retreated from the disastrous laboratory. Harry was right on his heels, glad to close the door on that slightly frightening overgrown plant. Theo and Neville would be fascinated. Harry just hoped they could deal with the plant without getting too sidetracked.

“Basement?”

Harry sighed. “If we must.”

“Whatever’s down there won’t be too nasty,” Sirius said. “Just… a lot of it. A _lot_.”

“Wonderful,” Harry said sourly. “Good thing I’m well rested.”

“You remember the spell I showed you?” Sirius checked as they started down the stairs. “Some things have curses to multiply if you try and Vanish them; you need to use it to check first…”

“Yes, I remember,” Harry said, resisting the urge to roll his eyes with a heroic effort.

Sirius wasn’t fooled. “Okay, I’m the _king_ of teenage angst bullshit, so you can just shut that right down,” he said, grinning over his shoulder. “I probably shouldn’t even be taking you down there. You’re a great wizard for your age and all but it’s a complicated spell and I did have to check.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, snapping out a Muggle military-style salute.

Sirius laughed.

Harry sighed as Sirius opened the basement door and sent a wash of wizard light down the stairs. Moss was growing on the walls and floor, the wooden staircase was rotten and sagging, and there was a distinct rustling sound coming from the blackness just out of sight.

It was going to be a long day.

 

“No—no, Neville, do _not_ wave that thing around—Harry, help!”

“Solve your own problems,” Harry told Theo, sauntering into the kitchen. He should talk to Sirius about changing the location of their Floo connection. It would be distinctly unglamorous for Augusta Longbottom to step out of the fireplace into a kitchen.

“Cherry and unicorn hair,” Neville said proudly, gesturing with his wand. A jet of water arced out of the end and splashed over the sink. “Oh, damn.”

Theo glared at him. _“Expelliarmus!”_

 _“Protego!”_ Neville’s shield was so overpowered it flared with light instead of remaining a nearly imperceptible shimmer in the air. Theo’s spell ricocheted off with great force, bounced off the ceiling and two walls, and fizzled out near the sink.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Well, that’s definitely a change.”

“It is _ridiculous_ ,” Theo said, sticking his own wand away. Neville looked very pleased with himself. “All his spells are all over the place.”

“Good thing Snape’s class doesn’t involve wandwork,” Harry said. “Have you tried transfiguration yet?”

Neville winced. “No. Just some charms and hexes. I don’t think I should duel for a while, until I sort this out.”

“He hit Blaise with a Dancing Curse yesterday,” Theo said. “He couldn’t undo it and it took an _hour_ to wear off.”

“I’m a little afraid he’s going to hex me permanently bald,” Neville admitted.

Harry smirked. “Good one.”

“Wanna see?” Neville pointed his wand.

Theo leaped aside.

_“Wingardium leviosa!”_

One of the kitchen chairs shot up into the air and hit the ceiling with a _crack._

“Oops,” Neville said, lowering his wand. The chair hit the ground in multiple pieces.

Harry waved his own in the chair’s direction. _“Reparo_. Impressive. Hopefully we have Charms together this year. I’d love to see Flitwick’s face when you do this. Oh Merlin, and _Jules’_.”

“D’you think they’ll… I dunno, bother me more? If I do better in class?” Neville said, suddenly looking apprehensive.

Harry was forcibly reminded of the many, many differences between himself and his friend. In Neville’s position, Harry would’ve been reveling in the opportunity to shove his new skill down Jules and Ron and Seamus’ throats.

“Don’t hold back ‘cause you’re worried about them,” Theo said, throwing himself into a chair. “They might get jealous. Who cares? It’s not like they’ve been nice to you all these years or anything.”

“I guess…” Neville looked at his wand for a minute, then shrugged. “So what’s up with this plant thing you wrote us about? And how’d the basement cleanup go?”

“This way,” Harry said. Theo heaved a sigh as he got to his feet; he and Neville trailed Harry out into the main hall. “Basement was… fine, I guess. We spent all of yesterday and the day before working on it. There were two ghouls and a boggart down there.” He _really_ wished Sirius hadn’t seen his boggart, but there was no help for it now and at least he listened when Harry made it clear he didn’t want to talk about it. “It’s empty now. We just vanished everything that didn’t have a Multiply Curse on it and then crammed the rest into a bag with a Bottomless Charm on it and then vanished the bag.”

“Clever,” Theo said.

Harry smirked. “My idea.”

“I figured,” Theo said. “Sirius seems like a good bloke, but not the sort to think of that.”

“I heard that,” Sirius said, walking out of the ground floor sitting room with a smirk.

Theo slipped into a contrite expression so quickly Harry almost didn’t notice the change. “Sorry, sir, I was only joking.”

Sirius blinked. “You’re near as good as Harry.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Theo said.

“You can lay off,” Harry said, enjoying the show. Neville was just rubbing at one of his temples like he had a headache. “He’s not actually angry.”

Sirius let a shit-eating grin creep over his face. “Not in the slightest. You’re absolutely right, I’m much more of a straightforward thinker.”

“In that case, thanks,” Theo said, dropping the act and grinning back. “Harry’s pretty damn good.”

“Yeah, we know you’re both excellent at manipulating people,” Neville interrupted. He looked at Sirius. “Harry’s had nearly all our professors except Snape wrapped around his finger since first year.”

Harry shrugged. “McGonagall’s not that fond of me, either. If I wasn’t good at her class, this would be a problem.” He flicked a finger at the Slytherin pin on his blue robe.

“You showing them the evil plant?” Sirius said.

Harry nodded.

“Have fun,” Sirius said. “Don’t let it digest you.”

Theo raised his eyebrows and Neville looked excited as Sirius disappeared. Harry knew he was in there probably arguing with Kreacher about a collection of Sirius’ parents’ portraits. “Is that a possibility?” Theo said. “Because you might’ve mentioned that in your letter.”

“Er… it’s possible,” Harry said, starting up the stairs. “I guess. It’s been living off the remains of rotting potions ingredients for however long that room’s been left empty—Sirius said his uncle Alphard died fourteen years ago, so possibly that long. We don’t really know what’s going on with it. Or what it can do.”

“Yech,” Neville said. “But fascinating.”

Harry pushed open the door to the overgrown laboratory. “Here you are.”

“Merlin,” Theo said.

The plant seemed to have _grown_ , unless Harry was just imagining things. Just in the last two days. It visibly recoiled from the three boys in the door.

“This should be fun,” Theo said, eyeing it with a grin.

Neville rolled up his sleeves. “Have you tried fire?”

Harry waved his wand. A jet of fire shot out at the plant. It shuddered as the flames washed over it—Harry had made them as hot as he could—and a bit of rancid smoke drifted up, but after thirty seconds under the onslaught, the plant didn’t even look scorched.

“Well,” Neville said. “How… unusual.”

“Have fun,” Harry said. “I’ll leave the door open.”

“Good thing I have an emergency Portkey,” he heard Neville say as he walked away. Harry snickered and absently ran his thumb over the ring he still wore on his right index finger. It was really unlikely that he’d need it anytime soon, but Theo’s gift was a handy escape route. And a reminder that Harry had people he could trust, no matter how few.

He wandered into the sitting room on the ground floor and found Sirius awkwardly patting Kreacher on the head while the house-elf wailed into Sirius’ robes and clutched his knee. Harry clamped ruthlessly down on his expression so he didn’t laugh out loud at the sight.

“Everything okay?” he said.

The elf let out another, louder wail.

“Sirius?”

“I gave him all the portraits of Regulus that were in here,” Sirius said, looking irritated, confused, affectionate, and amused all at the same time. “He, er, seems to be happy about it.”

“Kreacher th-thanks Master Sirius,” Kreacher sobbed out. Harry couldn’t decide which was funnier, Kreacher’s display of emotions or Sirius’ paralyzed uncertainty. “Kreacher is grateful Master Sirius is no longer the cruel and thoughtless boy of his youth…”

Sirius grimaced.

“How about you go put the paintings in your cupboard,” Harry suggested. Kreacher bowed so low his nose nearly scraped the ground, and Harry suddenly realized— _Go to your cupboard, boy!_

Kreacher lived in a cupboard. So had Harry, once.

He made a note to ask Neville whether it was normal for house-elves to take over some small space in the house or be given a proper room.

“Why do you hate him so much?” Harry said, sprawling over a sofa with a sigh. It was wonderful to have most of the furniture reupholstered, repaired, and no longer horrendously dusty.

Sirius settled into an armchair and stared moodily out the window at the ugly square. Even July sunlight and blue skies and a slightly greener patch of grass couldn’t really improve the view. “He worshipped my mother,” Sirius said. “Father, too, but mostly Mother. And he adored Regulus because Mother told him to, hated me because Mother did. When Mother would—go off on one of her rages, Regulus and I always hid in the library. Kreacher would grab Regulus and Apparate up there. He never came back for me. Not once.”

“Came back?” Harry said. “Not took you first?”

“I’d step in front of Regulus,” Sirius said with a jerky shrug. “I’d have been madder at Kreacher for taking me first than not taking me at all. Just…”

Harry didn’t know how to help with this. He thought some people would go for hugs but just the thought of that made him start to sweat. And managing his _own_ mental dark spaces was hard enough without trying to figure out someone else’s.

 _“Expecto patronum,”_ he whispered, swishing his holly wand.

The large silver wolf coalesced on the floor. It shook its mane out and cocked its head, examining Harry with depthless eyes.

He narrowed his own eyes and concentrated.

The wolf flicked one ear and padded over to Sirius, curling up around Harry’s godfather’s feet.

Sirius took a long, shuddering breath and closed his eyes. Some of the darkness left his expression. Harry concentrated on the Patronus. He might not have a happy enough memory to _power_ the spell, but that didn’t lessen the aura the Patronus had, and he could help that aura if he put what happy memories he _did_ have into the magic that he was expending to keep it in existence. Harry thought of games of Exploding Snap in the common room, laughing on the train with all his friends, the exhilaration of besting older students in a duel, hours curled up in front of a fire in the Slytherin common room or Potter Manor or Grimmauld Place with a book, the moment when he looked out his window and saw Fred, George, Pansy, Theo, and Blaise in a flying car come for _him_ , the sheer freedom of flying not for Quidditch but for fun, winning matches with his teammates, a pillow fight in the boys’ dorm that remained one of the few times Malfoy had joined in with Harry and Theo and Blaise and been fun, the precious and new and savage affection he had for Sirius.

The wolf’s silver glow increased steadily and slowly. Sirius breathed in and out a few more times. Harry began to feel the strain—the Patronus was a difficult spell and he was still young. His magical core would need several more years to be fully mature. He kept the spell steady. If he had to, he could hold it longer than this.

“Thank you,” Sirius said quietly.

Harry waited another few seconds before he flicked his wand and canceled the spell. The wolf dissolved.

They sat in silence until a shout from upstairs drew both of them out of their thoughts and off to check on Neville and Theo.

 

“You’re _sure_ you’re okay coming?”

Sirius leaned on Harry’s door frame. “My self-control is good enough to handle being in a room with James and not curse him to bits, thank you very much.”

Harry fiddled with his robe, green with black accents, trying to get it to lie straight across his shoulders. It was fitted and it looked great on him. Or it _should_.

“Here.” Sirius stepped forward. “C’mon, face me.” He did something to the shoulders of Harry’s robe. It settled into place easily.

“How’d you do that?” Harry said, looking in the mirror again. He really needed to sort out his hair.

“Practice,” Sirius said, grinning roguishly. “You didn’t think I had half the girls in Hogwarts crushing on me by looking slovenly, did you?”

“Only half?” Harry said, pointing his wand at his dragonhide boots. The laces began briskly tying themselves.

Sirius laughed. “See if I help you get ready next time. Oh, watch this.” He demonstrated a deft wand movement and Harry’s hair immediately settled a bit. Not much, but enough to make a difference, and when Harry leaned forward with a comb to arrange it, it actually cooperated for once.

“Can you teach me that one?” he said, and tossed some bird treats into Alekta’s empty cage, since the falcon would probably return with a letter from Justin today.

“Yes, but later, we really need to leave.” Sirius checked his watch and grimaced. “Merlin, I don’t even want to go…”

“You know why it’s a good idea.” Harry had spent two hours convincing Sirius that he shouldn’t ignore his invitation to the Potter twins’ joint birthday party-slash-gala; he had to make an appearance to prove that he was in good health and not going to hide from anybody. Harry had been tempted to skip it himself after James flatly refused to allow Theo, Pansy, or Daphne into his house. Harry would have only Blaise and Neville as backup on this one, plus maybe Luna, since Justin was still gone and Hermione’s parents had decided the three of them should go to Brazil this summer, a decision Hermione had complained about at length. She was apparently very frustrated by not being able to do magic the whole time she was gone.

Sirius heaved a sigh. “I do. Doesn’t mean I like it.”

“What, you’re too chicken?” Harry said.

“I’m not afraid of _anything_ ,” Sirius protested, dogging his heels as Harry finally left his room, a book tucked into an expandable pocket for later and Eriss snugly concealed under his robes, since he still hadn’t told Sirius about his familiar. He laughed to himself. Gryffindors were so easy to manipulate.

“Of course not,” he said agreeably.

Sirius grumbled under his breath and led the way into the kitchen, where a fire burned low and Kreacher was happily cleaning up the remains of their lunch.

“Will Masters be needing dinner today?” he said.

“Yes, please,” Sirius said. “Enough for the birthday party here, afterward. Harry, how many people are coming over?”

Harry paused to count in his head. “Eleven. Thirteen with us included.”

“None for me,” Sirius said. “I’ll eat hors d’oeuvres at Potter Manor.”

Kreacher made a face at the name “Potter” and then stopped with a slightly guilty look Harry’s direction. “Very good, Master Sirius.”

“See you,” Harry said, grinning as warmly as he could at the elf, and following Sirius into the floo.

They stepped out into the entrance hall of Potter Manor. Fairy lights floated slowly around the room, condensing near the grand, vaulted ceiling and dramatic chandelier. Clusters of people half-filled the elegant hall, talking and laughing. Sirius and Harry’s arrival barely garnered notice; people would’ve been arriving for the last hour or so.

“Lord Black, Harry. Good to see you both.”

Harry and Sirius turned and found Vanessa Tate grinning at them, standing next to a blond witch wearing a bored expression and a shimmery gold dress embroidered in shifting patterns of sapphire thread. “You as well,” Sirius said, shaking her hand. “Who is your lovely companion?”

“My girlfriend, Hazel Laurens,” Tate said.

“A pleasure,” Ms. Laurens said, bestowing a smile on them both. Harry picked out a subtle design of wings and sapphires sewn into the embroidery as it swirled up and down the sides of her dress in artful patterns. Ravenclaw, probably.

“It is indeed,” Sirius said, grinning at both of them. “Though I confess a bit of disappointment. I’d hoped to ask you on a date at some point, Ms. Tate.”

Tate laughed, throwing her head back. Harry catalogued the curve of her throat and the glint of the pearls in her ears, and the way her laughter was carefully pitched to be pleasant and draw attention without sounding obnoxious or affected. He also noted the admiring glances thrown her way and the obvious, genuine affection on Laurens’ face as she looked at her partner.

“You look like you’re looking at bugs under a magnifying spell,” Sirius muttered.

Harry snapped out of it with a quick, guilty grin, and controlled himself.

“I’d have turned you down, but I’m flattered nonetheless,” Tate said.  

“We would be happy to go on a double date with you,” Laurens said with a clever smile. “If you can find anyone to accompany you, that is.”

“Ah!” Sirius said, looking delighted. “I like you, Ms. Laurens.”

“We can all be on a first-name basis by now, surely,” Tate said, shooting a subtle wink at Harry when Sirius’ attention momentarily flicked over to a tipsy wizard staggering past them. Harry grinned back at her, grateful that the first people they’d encountered were people Sirius liked.

“Thank Merlin, I hate this high society formality,” Sirius said with feeling. “I’d love to accompany you on a double date, but I’m afraid I’m rather out of the loop. Do you know anyone who’d be eligible?”

“What’s your preference?” Tate said.

Sirius smirked. “Anyone attractive.”

Harry had to swallow a laugh. Sirius had hinted at having a few male conquests in school, but apparently nearly all his male classmates had been straight. He couldn’t wait to see who his godfather went out on a date with first.

Tate and Laurens shared a conspiratorial grin. “I’m sure we can find a few people,” Laurens said. “Care to join us for a drink?”

“I’d be honored.”

“See you,” Harry said, recognizing that as his cue. “It was lovely to meet you, Ms. Laurens. Don’t let him get too drunk to pronounce the Floo address.”

“We won’t,” Tate promised.

As Harry walked away, he heard Laurens say “Clever, that one” and Tate respond with “You have no idea” before they were out of earshot. He smirked, plucked a glass of water off a tray that floated magically past him, and sipped it as he maneuvered deftly through the crowd. A number of people recognized him, thanks to his resemblance to Jules, and Harry had to stop several times to charm and flatter and butter up these smug wizards and witches puffed up on their own importance. It was getting a bit painful by the time he made it out of the manor and into the backyard.

 _“So many things wrong with this world and all they do is sit around and drink alcohol and compliment themselves on their Gringotts vaults,_ ” he grumbled.

Eriss shifted a bit under his robes. _“You don’t want me to bite them, do you?”_

_“No humans. You can go hunt the gnomes, if you like. They’re good at sneaking through the wards.”_

_“Ooooh, yes. They’re cleverer than mice. Much more fun.”_

Harry paused by a bush and pretended to check his watch while Eriss slithered down his leg inside his robes and disappeared into the shrubbery. _“Come find me in a few hours,”_ he said.

She didn’t even respond, already taking off in the direction of some interesting smell. Harry shook his head at her and continued moving through the sun-drenched backyard, packed with people brown-nosing and making connections at the Boy Who Lived’s birthday party.

With relief, he spotted a cluster of younger people at the periphery of the party, down by the pond. Harry refused to let his mood sour remembering his first encounter with the pond.

As he got closer, he made out Fred and George holding court, entertaining a number of people around their age with trick wands. Harry had seen plenty of the trick wands, including three prototypes that had either exploded or knocked the user unconscious for a few hours or both, so he wasn’t particularly impressed. He worked his way around the edges of the crowd. A few people from school greeted him. He made sure to be cordial to everyone and finally made it to where Blaise, Luna, Neville, and Ginny were clustered.

“Harry, hi,” Neville said.

“Thank Merlin,” Ginny said. “Can you rein Ron in?”

Harry looked down by the lake. Ron and Jules were laughing and jeering at each other. A crowd of younger kids, probably dragged along by parents since several of them looked a year or two too young to be in Hogwarts, were standing around them. Jules was clearly enjoying their attention and Ron was basking in the glory of being the Boy Who Lived’s best friend. As Harry watched, Ron jeered at one of the younger kids for something or other, and several of that kid’s apparent friends immediately began cutting him out of the group, either deliberately or unconsciously.

“Not my circus, not my monkey,” Harry said.

“I hate you,” Ginny muttered.

He winked at her. “No, you don’t.”

To his surprise, Ginny actually blushed a bit. Huh. Maybe Harry should experiment more with flirting. He knew years of Quidditch workouts, Hogwarts meals, and stealing food from the Dursleys when he was stuck there had left him fit and much more toned than he used to be. And he knew he wasn’t bad-looking. Seemed that was an angle he could play up.

He glanced up. Blaise was smirking and Neville was watching with bemusement. Luna appeared to be watching something invisible fly slowly around Blaise’s head.

“How’s the party been?” he asked.

Blaise, who somehow managed to appear elegant and insouciant while standing with perfect posture at a garden party, shrugged. “Rather boring, to be frank. The adults only want to coo over how much we’ve grown and then shunt us off to the side while they have ‘grown up conversations’.”

“Their loss,” Harry said indifferently.

“Most of them have far too many Wrackspurts,” Luna said dreamily.

Blaise raised an eyebrow. “Remind me what a Wrackspurt is?”

“They fly into someone’s brain,” Luna said. There was something incisive and clever lurking in her expression, Harry thought, something that didn’t match with her seemingly batty words. “Through the ears, you see, and make your brain go fuzzy.”

“Do Wrackspurts have anything to do with them becoming far too flattered and self-impressed when someone of higher status tosses a scrap of praise their way?” Harry said.

Luna cocked her head. “Certainly,” she replied. “That’s one of many possible effects.”

“Are you all right there, Blaise?” Harry said, mostly succeeding in hiding his smirk.

Blaise wiped his epiphany off his face and scowled. “Perfectly, thank you, Harry.”

Neville seemed to dismiss the moment as Slytherin mental gymnastics that he didn’t want to bother with. “Gran said she’s heard rumors of something big going on at Hogwarts this year,” he said. “Has any of you heard anything?”

“Mr. Weasley hinted at something that we’ll need dress robes for this year,” Harry mused. “I kind of thought he just meant that older students should take more care to dress nicely, but maybe it was something bigger.”

“Have Theo write Malfoy,” Blaise said. “Better yet, Pansy. Lord Malfoy’s tight with Fudge, even more than most other people on the Wizengamot.”

 _And the Malfoys are connected to the Notts and Parkinsons by something we won’t discuss_ , Harry thought, translating the subtext with amusement. “Good plan. Maybe we can… do a bit of brown-nosing ourselves and find something out,” he added, gesturing vaguely at the back lawn of Potter Manor, decorated with tents and food tables and people waiting to be flattered and fooled.

“Excellent plan,” Blaise said, his teeth flashing in a grin.

“I’m coming,” Ginny said. “I need something to do other than watch my brother be an idiot.”

“Luna, want to go find the back gardens?” Neville said. “I think there’s probably some gnomes hiding over in that area.”

“I’d love to,” Luna said. “The saliva from a bite from such a charming creature can lead to some fascinating talents.”

“Like what?”

Blaise, Harry, and Ginny watched them walk away. “I think Neville may be going on some Hogsmeade dates this year,” Ginny said.

“Luna’s lucky,” Harry said.

Blaise cracked his knuckles. “Right, let’s go butter up some politicians.”

 

_“Nothing.”_

“There’s _something_ ,” Harry corrected Ginny’s heated declaration. “They just won’t let slip what it _is._ ”

“I’m impressed,” Blaise drawled. “If a bit surprised. The Ministry usually keeps secrets like a sieve holds water.”

Harry glanced at Ginny. “You’re doing better, but you still need to work on controlling that temper of yours,” he reminded her. He’d had to intervene three times in the last hour and a half to keep Ginny from drastically offending some huffy bureaucrat or other, and after the third time, he told her to just shadow him or Blaise.

“I _know_ ,” she grumbled. “You’re not my dad.”

“I should hope not,” Harry said with just a little bit of a sneer that he couldn’t quite hide. Luckily, Ginny seemed to either not notice or not care.

Blaise pursed his lips. “Definitely write Theo or Pansy and have them reach out to Malfoy. Not both.”

“That would definitely be too suspicious,” Harry agreed. “I’m leaning toward Pansy. I’ve never asked, but I suspect there’s some kind of tacit understanding between their families.”

“Probably,” Blaise said. “Parkinsons and Malfoys haven’t married in several generations. Malfoy’s lucky there’s a girl his age he’s not that closely related to his parents can shove him toward.”

“Is your mum meddling in your marital prospects yet?” Harry said.

Blaise snorted and grabbed a glass of champagne, knocking half of it back in one go. “Hardly. She checks in once a month or so to verify that I’m not deathly ill, and fucks back off with her latest arm candy.”

 Ginny blinked, clearly a bit taken aback by his language. Harry had picked up enough about Blaise’s complicated relationship with his mother to take it in stride.

“I can bug my dad,” Ginny said. “I don’t expect to get much, but…”

“Finn,” Harry told her. “Write Finn. His father or uncle or grandfather or something’s Chief Warlock—he was the placeholder during Dumbledore’s suspension; they voted two days ago to make it permanent. If anyone’d know besides Fudge, it’s him. I don’t know the man so I’m not sure how loose-lipped he might be, but it’s worth a shot.”

“He’s here somewhere, actually,” Ginny said. She frowned. “I think off trying to coerce the house-elves into giving him food with Terry and Jordan. They’ve been at it for ages. It’s his father on the Wizengamot—which, why haven’t we seen Mr. Sullivan?”

“James has a bunch of the Wizengamot bigwigs holed up in his study. What I wouldn’t give to eavesdrop on _that_ conversation,” Harry said.

“Bigwigs?” Ginny stared at him. So did Blaise.

Harry winced. “Muggle expression, then. Sorry. Eh… key players.”

“Got it. From what I know about the man, Finn won’t have great odds,” Blaise observed.

“How would you know?” Harry said. He had an idea, but he wanted to be sure.

“Mum keeps tabs on all the eligible wizards in England, Germany, France, Spain, and Italy,” Blaise said with an eye roll. “Her files are _extensive._ I’ve been breaking into her study and reading up on the British set since I was ten.”

“Can I get copies of those files after Christmas?” Harry said.

Blaise smirked at him and sipped his champagne. “What do I get?”

“Potions,” Harry said. “All your essays first term.”

“And study help,” Blaise said.

“Done.”

Blaise nodded, finished his champagne, and narrowed his eyes over Harry’s shoulder. “Excuse me, there’s someone I need to talk to,” he said, and sauntered away, grabbing two more glasses of the bubbly golden alcohol as he went.

“Where’s he going?” Ginny said.

Harry turned around and tracked Blaise’s trajectory, scanned the crowd in that direction…

 _Ah._ He smirked. “Katie Bell’s over there looking irritated with Lee Jordan,” he said. “Watch.”

Blaise smoothly joined the conversation, passing one glass to Bell and turning on Jordan with a falsely apologetic expression.

“He’ll be apologizing that he didn’t have three hands or something,” Harry said, “and then he’ll cut Jordan right out…”

Sure enough, Blaise engaged Bell in some discussion that had her lively and animated within moments. Jordan’s expression got increasingly ugly until he snapped something out and stalked away. Bell didn’t seem to even give his departure more than a passing glance.

“He’s good,” Ginny said.

Harry grinned. “Blaise is nothing if not reliable with the ladies.”

“Pig,” Ginny said.

“Hardly.” Harry nodded in Blaise’s direction, where his friend was listening, asking questions, paying Bell genuine attention, and Bell was clearly snapping off some witty comebacks, because Harry knew Blaise’s real smile and that was it on his face. “It’s a dance. Talk to Pansy about flirting. Your brothers’ll tell you Gryffindor horror stories of casual injuries done because a couple never bothered to sort out what exactly was going on between them. Not that Slytherins never cheat or hook up in broom closets, but we at least plan ahead, and we know it’s a two-way street. Respect given, respect returned. Quid pro quo. I’m off to find Sirius; I’d appreciate if you kept Finn and Terry and Jordan from robbing our house-elves blind.”

“They’re not _your_ house-elves,” Ginny said. “They’re House Potter’s.”

“And I’m its Heir,” Harry said with a cheeky grin. “One day they’ll be _only_ mine. Along with all this. Grab some champagne, have fun, and the Knockback Jinx would do an excellent job landing Ronald in the pond if you’re so inclined.”

He snagged a glass of champagne as he left, too, and took a tentative sip. The taste wasn’t horrible but he decided he didn’t like carbonated alcoholic drinks any better than he did carbonated soda, and left it on a table as he continued.

It was the sight of Mr. Scrimgeour, elected Wizengamot member, that alerted Harry to potential danger. He deftly extricated himself from a brief conversation about educational standards and Durmstrang, moving with a lot more purpose towards the bar tucked up against the back of the manor. If the Wizengamot crowd was done with their private chat then that meant James Potter was loose in a crowd that contained a possibly tipsy Sirius Black.

That was a recipe for disaster on par with the worst potions mess Harry had ever engineered in Snape’s class.

Neville and Luna materialized at his elbow. “Where’s the fire?” Neville said.

“In the rib cage,” Luna murmured absently.

“There,” Harry said grimly, having just spotted Sirius, Tate, and Laurens in a group of about ten people roughly their age, oblivious to James Potter and Ethan Thorne moving in their direction.

“Oh shit,” Neville said.

Normally, Harry’d have been taken aback by the rare sound of Neville swearing, but Harry was on a mission and he didn’t have time for that. He worked his way closer to the impending explosion and prayed to Merlin and Morgana that Sirius was telling the truth earlier about his self-control.

“Have fun looking at the gnomes?” he said to distract himself.

Neville grinned. They both glanced over at Luna, who had paused to speak with an ancient, doddering witch about the Crumple-Horned Snorkack. “Er, fun. Yeah. I’m not sure if she’s batty or brilliant or both.”

“Leaning towards both, frankly,” Harry said. “There is no genius without a touch of insanity.”

“Her own House calls her Loony Lovegood,” Neville muttered. “Along with most of mine. It’s not right.”

Harry turned and looked over his shoulder at Jules laughing and smiling and prattling on while a cluster of indulgent older witches smiled at him and Ron and Seamus hovered by his shoulders, trying to pick up the edges of Jules’ glow. A few other Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs like Toby Pritchard and Libby Borage lingered nearby as well. “Nothing about that is right,” he said.

Neville followed his gaze. “I’m—I want to try to do something about them this—about them this year,” he said. “I—I think… I can…”

Harry opened his mouth and then closed it again. This was Neville, one of his closest friends; Neville, who he couldn’t handle the same way as Theo. _It’s okay to protect yourself first_ , he wanted to say, _sometimes the bravest thing you can do is save yourself_ , but he knew such ideas didn’t fit with Neville and wouldn’t help in the slightest and damn, friendship was infuriating.

 _Sometimes I want to just say to hell with them all and kill the part of me that cares_ , Harry thought sourly.

“The Hat put you in Gryffindor for a reason,” he said as gently as he could bring himself to be. It probably wasn’t very gentle in the grand scheme of things, but Neville would appreciate the effort. “Real bravery isn’t what they’ve got, Neville. Real bravery is working past real fear, not operating in desperate bravado and never being afraid, or maybe just never realizing your fear, in the first place.”

Neville took a deep, steadying breath just as Luna drifted back over to them, swirling something white and fizzy in a champagne flute and humming an eerie melody in the back of her throat.

Harry turned his attention back to Thorne and James. Thorne was leaning in and speaking to James, not urgently, but not casually either. Both of them were holding wineglasses. It wasn’t easy to tell in the gathering twilight, but James’ expression looked stony and Harry was pretty sure he was glaring at Sirius, who’d just told some joke that got his entire group laughing. Harry was delighted to see Sirius beginning to recover—you could still see Azkaban on him, easily, but he could laugh, he could make friends—and he really did not want to see James get in the way of that.

“Is it nine yet?” he asked.

Neville checked his watch. “Er, quarter till.”

“Thanks.” Staying until nine would be three and a half hours at the party. Harry and his friends were celebrating his and Neville’s birthdays afterward at Grimmauld Place in the newly scoured basement, which had been thoroughly sterilized, painted, and furbished with a wizarding wireless radio and carpet and a bunch of comfortable chairs and sofas. Plus the mind healers had cautioned Sirius about doing too much too soon. Fifteen more minutes, and Harry could reasonably ask Sirius if they could Floo home. Fifteen minutes and they could dodge any chaos.

James very suddenly set his half-empty wine glass down one of the round bar tables and marched in Sirius’ direction.

Harry winced. Or not.

“We running interference?” Blaise asked, appearing at Harry’s left.

“Not yet,” Harry said. “Sirius can handle his own problems. I think.”

“Reassuring,” Blaise said.

Harry elbowed him. “If I wanted sarcasm, I’d have sneaked Theo in. Oh. Shit. Eriss. She’s over in the garden hunting gnomes.”

Luna sipped her unidentifiable drink. “She ought to be careful. Gernumbly magic is stronger than it seems.”

“I’ll warn her next time,” Harry said.

“Hunting?” Neville said, frowning.

“Better practice than mice, apparently,” Harry said absently, watching James insert himself into the group Sirius was talking to, Thorne right behind him. The tension level ratcheted up but there were no immediate fireworks. He needed to get closer so he could eavesdrop; _amplius auri_ would overwhelm him with all the lawn party noise. “I don’t think she’ll eat any of them. I told her to come find me… but if Sirius and I have to leave promptly—”

“She understands English, right?” Luna said. “I could go call for her.”

“Er,” Harry said. “Really?” Most of his friends were still a bit nervous around Eriss when he wasn’t there. It was annoying but he grudgingly understood; she was a deadly creature and she couldn’t communicate back to them.

“I’ve handled far more dangerous creatures traveling with my father,” Luna said with a sweet smile. “I’m sure Eriss won’t harm me…”

“Thanks, then,” Harry said, one eyebrow raised.

She drifted away with no further indication that she even knew they existed.

“Is that a good idea?” Blaise said.

“Probably not, but I have antivenin in my pocket and bigger problems at hand,” Harry said.

“This way,” Blaise said. “We’re getting wine, since you and Neville haven’t tried.”

“Why?” Neville said, hesitating as Harry promptly followed Blaise.

Harry glanced over his shoulder and jerked his head slightly. Neville sighed and caught up. “Bar,” Harry said, pointing at it, and then he switched his finger over to the group of people he had his eye on. “Eavesdropping target.”

“Ahhhh,” Neville said. “Got it.”

“Three of that red,” Blaise said, nodding with a smile at the house-elf behind the bar. Harry recognized Marnee.

The elf snapped her fingers, and a wine bottle moved to begin pouring three glasses half-full. Harry took his and swirled it, only half listening as Blaise started talking about wine tasting in Italy. The voices of the group near them were still too low to fully make out, but at least they looked relatively relaxed… Sirius was stubbornly not looking in James’ direction and a few people had left, though, those weren’t good signs…

Harry took a sip of his wine and his eyebrows shot up. “That’s… a lot of grape,” he said.

Blaise snickered. “The look on your face right now…”

“Muggles aren’t allowed to drink until eighteen,” Harry protested. “I mean, lots of people start sooner, but I haven’t exactly been socializing with my Muggle peers .”

“It’s a social thing,” Neville said. He hadn’t tried more than a sip of his wine. “I’ve just never been interested, but it’s not uncommon for teenagers to have a glass of champagne or wine at things like this. Parents usually supervise. Getting blind drunk is _not_ a good idea for people with magic.”

Harry pictured trying to cast a spell while drunk, and winced. “Excellent point.”

“— _scum!”_

 _Shit._ Harry turned around, previous conversation already forgotten. While he’d been distracted, things had escalated somehow, and now James was pointing a finger in Sirius’ face.

“Hold that thought,” Harry said, already moving.

“James,” Thorne said in a reasonable tone. “This is maybe not the time.”

“He comes to _my_ house with _my_ son and tries to pretend none of what he did even matters!” James snapped, shaking off his friend and lawyer.

Sirius lost his battle to ignore James. The transition from his stubbornly controlled expression to the snarling fury that so fit his animagus form, coupled with twelve years of hell looking out of his eyes, was startling. James actually took a step back before he caught himself.

“What _I_ did?” Sirius snarled. “What _I did?”_

“Sirius,” Tate said. “Lord Potter. Thorne’s right, this really isn’t the place.”

Thorne shot her a creepy, obsequious smile. “Why, Vanessa, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you agree with me.”

“You won’t be hearing much of anything anymore if you don’t drop the familiarity, _Thorne,”_ Tate said, not even looking at him. Laurens, on the other hand, was giving Thorne such an icy glare that Harry remembered Theo’s warning of how vicious Ravenclaws could be when angered to the point that they put their projects on hold and went after payback.

Thorne _winked_ at her.

Harry closed his eyes briefly and inched closer. This wasn’t his fight, and he was only just fourteen—none of the adults would take his interference well.

“You’re Dark and I won’t have you turning my son to your nasty ways,” James spat.

Sirius grinned a like a canine baring its fangs. “Bit surprising. Hadn’t you already been keeping him from the Manor and his family heritage for years? Something about Slytherin turning him Dark and you not wanting him around Jules?”

“The wards were imperative,” Thorne said smoothly. “Now that the elder Mr. Potter’s actions brought them down, of course, things are different. But it was necessary for the Boy Who Lived that the wards stay active.”

“Ha,” Sirius said. “So one son _might_ need a last-ditch safe house later and that meant you were okay with leaving the other in an abusive home?”

“Of course you’d buy into his stories.” James’ sneer was every bit as nasty as anything Harry had ever seen in the Slytherin dungeons. “Slytherins are untrustworthy liars—but of course, you always made like your mum was a monster just because you didn’t get on—it’s no wonder your brother quit speaking to you and your family disowned you, even the Blacks couldn’t stand you!”

Sirius was perfectly still. Harry looked around and realized they were beginning to draw attention. He couldn’t jump into the fray, but maybe—

“Diversion,” he hissed. “The twins. Neville, can you—”

“On it.” Neville vanished.

Blaise edged closer. Harry drew comfort from the light brush of his friend’s arm against his own.

“Don’t. _Ever._ Speak about my brother,” Sirius said.

“What, dear old Death Eater Reggie?” James said with a laugh.

Thorne grabbed his arm. “ _James.”_

 “Listen to your little friend, Lord Potter,” one of the other men in the group said quietly. Harry memorized his face.

Thorne let go of James and turned on the speaker, his expression getting a bit ugly. “You don’t get to give Lord Potter orders on his own property,” he snapped.

Sirius laughed. “Oh, look at that, James, you’ve replaced me with a new guard dog already! Do you roll over when he tells you, Ethan?”

James went for his wand. Thorne and Sirius were right behind him, Laurens moving the same direction—

A scream, a _crack_ , and a massive splash interrupted the entire party.

Harry and Blaise ducked instinctively, along with nearly everyone else, as spray from some huge explosion in the lake hit them. In the chaos it was easy to see when Tate—Harry thanked Merlin for her good sense—dragged Sirius away from James. Laurens trailed behind with several narrow-eyed glances back at Thorne.

Things began to settle. Demands for answers rippled across the party.

“Twins’re nowhere to be seen,” Blaise reported, using his height advantage to look down by the lake. Harry cursed the Dursleys yet again for stunting his height. He wasn’t _horribly_ short, but he’d never be as tall as James or Jules. “Looks like something exploded in the lake. A few water nymphs are coming up to yell.”

“Excellent timing,” Harry said. “Shall we extricate ourselves?”

“I think now would be a good time, yes,” Blaise said.

Harry threw a couple elbows until he got up near James and Thorne. “Father,” he said politely.

James turned and scowled at him. “Harry.”

“Did you have anything to do with this?” Thorne said, half-glaring at Harry and gesturing in the direction of irritated guests casting drying charms left and right.

Harry blinked innocently. “How could I have? I was up here by the house when it happened.”

“Standing there with your Death Eater trainee friend,” James snarled.

“I do hope you don’t mean Neville,” Blaise said.

Harry smiled thinly. “Might be a bit awkward if Lady Augusta knew you were accusing her grandson of such things. Anyway, I just wanted to thank you for hosting this… excellent party, and inform you that Sirius and I and several of my friends are heading home to celebrate my birthday privately.”

“Happy birthday,” James said, sounding like the words tasted bad.

“Thank you,” Harry said with a bright smile.

“Thorne’s glaring at you,” Blaise said in a low voice as he and Harry walked away.

Harry didn’t look back. “Hardly surprising. He likes me about as much as I like him, and I’d happily punt him to the giant squid for a broken wand. See Neville anywhere?”

“He’s got Luna with him,” Blaise said. “Ginny and her crew, too. Are they coming to Grimmauld Place?”

“They weren’t invited,” Harry said. It being a joint celebration for him and Neville, Luna was coming, plus Anthony, Lisa, and Sue, all of whom had stayed closer to Neville after second year than Harry.

“Saying goodbye, them.” Blaise paused. “Wait, what about the twins?”

“I _did_ invite them,” Harry said. “They can sort out their mum on their own, they’re probably lying low at the moment.”

Blaise snickered. “Yes, better to avoid the tempest of Molly Weasley.”

“Here you are, Harry,” Luna said, reaching out a hand just as the others to him. She was pretending to give him a rock. Eriss slipped out of the open sleeve of her bright red robe and up Harry’s as he took the rock, a rather plain whitish thing with brownish flecks, and made a show of examining it while his familiar concealed herself. Given that none of the three boys trailing behind Ginny reached to something wriggling about under the shoulders of Harry’s robe, he assumed either Neville or Luna had renewed the Notice-Me-Not charm.

“What’s this for?” Harry said.

Luna smiled conspiratorially. “It’s blessed by the Gernumblies. Its presence will help you in ways you cannot predict.”

Harry was getting used to her oddness, and he translated this to apply as much to Eriss as the rock, since Luna said nothing outright. “It’s a lovely gift,” he said, smirking back.

“A _rock?”_ Jordan Hughes, rising Gryffindor third year, said skeptically.

Blaise shot the boy a withering glare that made him shrink back. “Don’t be a fool,” he said, leaving the younger boy stewing over what he didn’t understand and Finn Sullivan and Terry Boot trying to conceal the fact that they had no idea what was going on with the rock, either, for fear of being called fools too. The boys shot each other uncertain glances and Harry took the opportunity to give Blaise a miniscule nod. He could appreciate mind games well played. Blaise’s expression gave away none of the enjoyment he was probably getting from the whole thing. 

“Time to leave?” Neville said. “I need to find Gran first.”

Harry glanced around. The party was settling down after George and Fred’s diversion. “I believe so. Floo to number twelve, Grimmauld Place. I need to go track down my brother and then Sirius; if anyone beats me there, Kreacher should have food in the kitchen.”

Neville and Luna went to inform their parent figures that they were leaving. Blaise’s mum hadn’t been invited so he stayed firmly at Harry’s shoulder, still sipping his wine.

“Good to see you lot,” Harry said with a polite nod for Ginny’s friends. “I appreciate you not eating all the food in our kitchens.”

“Happy birthday, Harry,” Finn said, flashing his wild gap-toothed grin. “C’mon, Gin, they’re serving shrimp now.”

“See you, Harry,” Ginny said, and took off after the boys as they darted into the crowd.

“So hyperactive at their age,” Blaise sighed.

Harry elbowed him as they set off in search of Jules. “We’re only a year older, Blaise.”

“In body, maybe,” Blaise said. “Not maturity.”

Harry couldn’t argue with that.

Unfortunately, finding Jules meant finding Ronald, Finnegan, Ernie Macmillan, Susan Bones, Stephen Cornfoot, and a number of other younger guests trying to join the favored few.

Harry and Blaise paused on the periphery of Jules’ crowd. No one had noticed them yet. “This should be fun,” Blaise said.

“Merlin give me patience,” Harry said drily.

He stepped forward, polite smile fixed on his face. “Jules?”

Jules’ laughter trailed off. His friends and hangers-on turned varying degrees of hostility and curiosity on the new arrivals. Harry noted with irritation that there were no other Slytherins in this group, save for two that looked like rising second years being enthusiastically excluded by the other younger set hovering around the Boy Who Lived.

“Yeah?” Jules said.

Ronald jutted his chin like he was preparing for a fight.

“Enough with the posturing, Ronald,” Blaise said. “It’s unbecoming.”

“I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday,” Harry said pleasantly, before Ronald could snipe back. “I can give you your gift now, or have Marnee take it to your room if you like?”

“Now’s fine.” Jules hesitated. “Yours is in my room—one of the elves can grab it for you.”

“That’s fine,” Harry said with a razor smile. “Did Father by any chance get me anything?”

Jules turned bright red.

“He doesn’t have to,” Susan Bones sniffed. “Not after that sham trial.”

“I just love this Hufflepuff loyalty, don’t you?” Blaise said as if he and Harry were alone. “So charming, even when it’s to all the wrong people.”

Harry did his best not to grin. “I’m hardly going to protest the verdict of the Wizengamot, Miss Bones. Handed down in part by your grandmother, no less. Here you are, little brother.”

“Don’t call me that,” Jules muttered, taking the wrapped gift Harry pulled out of an expandable pocket with a scowl.

Blaise sipped his wine.

Jules tore into the packaging. Harry pretended like the awkward silence didn’t exist while Ronald and Finnegan shuffled awkwardly. Macmillan opened his mouth at one point as if to speak, but thought better of it.

“Er,” Jules said. “Thanks?”

Harry resisted the urge to sigh. Of _course_ Jules wouldn’t recognize what he’d just been given. “It’s a  goblin-made ring cooled in chimaera blood after forging. Very rare. It’ll heat up if you hold a cup, plate, or eating utensil with that hand that has poisoned food in it. Or if you touch said food directly, I suppose.”

“Oh,” Jules said, looking more impressed now.

“Chimaera blood? Really?” Cornfoot said condescendingly. “There hasn’t been a Chimaera killed in quite a long time.”

“Four hundred twenty some years, actually,” Harry said. “Which is when this ring was made, along with maybe a hundred others.”

“Where’d you get it then?” Finnegan demanded.

“Where do you think?” Blaise said. “The Black family has any number of old relics.”

Jules’ expression soured from genuine pleasure to disgust. “I don’t want anything from the Black family,” he spat. “It’s probably cursed.”

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s not cursed. I asked Sirius _and_ his friend Kingsley Shacklebolt—surely you know him, Auror, works with Father? —look at it.”

“It’s still a Black heirloom,” Ronald muttered. “Nasty family, that one.”

“Just because you use light magic doesn’t make you any more pleasant to have around,” Blaise sighed.

“Hey!” Ronald said. “Don’t you compare me to that horrid Death Eater family!”

Jules winced. “Ron.”

“If the hat fits…” Blaise said.

 _Time to go._ “Good party,” Harry said. “See you all around.”

To a chorus of halfhearted goodbyes, he and Blaise started to withdraw—

“Hold on!”

Ronald, being stupid. Blaise and Harry paused, backs still turned to Jules’ group.

“You don’t get to—to stand there all smug like you’re better than me—”

Blaise cut his eyes at Harry.

“Have at him,” Harry murmured.

Delight crossed fleetingly across Blaise’s face, gone by the time he turned back to face Ronald. “Well, I _am_ better than you in every conceivable way,” he said. “So you’ll need to cite a more specific problem.”

“Fine,” Ronald said, and literally _spat_ on Blaise’s robes.

There was a shocked pause, during which only Harry and Blaise stayed casual. Blaise absently examined his wine glass. There was still a fair amount of liquid in it.

 _“Ron!”_ Bones said, horrified. “That’s—”

In one quick, graceful motion, Blaise threw the remainder of his wine in Ronald’s face.

“…rude,” Bones finished weakly, as Ronald reeled back with a yell.

Finnegan and Cornfoot both had wands drawn. Harry cocked an eyebrow at them. “I wouldn’t,” he said. All the attention they’d drawn was focused on Ron, and Jules trying to help him get the alcohol out of his eyes, not on Harry and Blaise. Yet. “How would it look for you to curse the Slytherins unprovoked?”

“That wouldn’t be _unprovoked_ ,” Cornfoot snarled. “You threw wine in his face!”

“I tripped,” Blaise said with perfect sincerity. “And spilled.”

Finnegan blinked. “What—no, you… What?”

“Morgana’s staff, it’s too easy,” Blaise sighed. “I’m bored, can we go?”

“Great idea.” Harry sent his best fake smile at this group of some of his least favorite people in Hogwarts. At least the older Slytherins who’d given him a hard time second year and part of third respected him for standing up to them. “Bye.”

 

“First the time you gave Malfoy antlers, now you go and pull this!” Theo yelled. “Why does everything interesting happen when I’m not there!”

Harry grinned and Blaise laughed along with the rest of the group, most of whom were already cracking up after Blaise’s imitation of Ronald staggering around with wine dripping down his face. Everyone except Luna, who still had her weird drink from earlier, was drinking butterbeer, and the kitchen fire crackled merrily in the background. The remains of their full dinner

“Antlers?” Anthony said. “I haven’t heard _that_ story.”

“Wish Hermione was here,” Harry said, smirking. “She could tell the preface of that incident _quite_ nicely.”

“The short version is that she brewed Polyjuice in a bathroom second year so she, Jules, and Ronald could infiltrate the Slytherin dorms,” Neville said. “I didn’t know about it. Jules and Ronald thought the Heir of Slytherin was either Harry or Malfoy, and Hermione thought it was Malfoy…”

Blaise carefully didn’t look at Harry. He and Theo and Neville remained the only people who knew Harry actually _was_ the Heir. Or at least _an_ Heir.

“Harry caught on within minutes,” Pansy sniffed. “They were _terrible_ actors. Ronald as Crabbe showed an interest in _chess_.”

Sue snorted. “Yeah, _that’s_ likely.”

“Exactly what I thought,” Harry said. “Blaise and Pansy and I followed them…”

“Where were _you_ in all this?” Anthony asked Daphne.

The icy girl scowled at her cousin. “At home, like any sane person. It was over the holidays.”

“Ohhh,” Anthony said. “That explains why no one noticed Draco Malfoy in the hospital wing. But—wait, why did _he_ —”

“We’re getting there,” Pansy said, kicking him under the table. “Anyway. We tracked them to Myrtle’s bathroom and found them changing back into themselves. Harry lit into them all—”

“Bet that was fun to watch,” Lisa said.

Harry smiled at the memory. “It was fun for me, at least.”

“Very fun to watch,” Blaise confirmed.

“Hermione…?” Sue sipped her butterbeer.

“It’s very frustrating when one’s friends don’t trust you,” Luna said thoughtfully. “I’d imagine, anyway. I don’t have many friends, so I can’t say for sure.”

“Exactly,” Harry said. He didn’t feel like talking about it, and moved the conversation along. “I went back to the dorms—I was, er, a bit irritated—”

“Furious,” Pansy supplied, looking gleeful. “With Draco, for being an _idiot_ and not noticing his three closest friends were imposters—”

“Friends,” Lisa scoffed. “Ha. Those three? They might be friends with each _other_ , but not Malfoy. They just want his family name.”

Pansy shrugged indifferently. “He was still being stupid.”

“Harry cornered him in the dorm, scared the magic out of him, and then hexed him,” Blaise said, affecting dreamy happiness. “Absolutely delightful moment.”

“And they sent me home to pick Father’s brain over the Chamber so I _missed it_ ,” Theo complained, glaring at Harry, Pansy, and Blaise.

“What’d you use, _anteoculatia?”_ Lisa said.

Harry nodded. “First time I ever cast it, actually. Handy little spell. Oh, Pansy, I need you to write Malfoy. We kept picking up on hints of something big planned involving Hogwarts this year and his father’s tight with Fudge.”

“Why Pansy?” Sue said.

There was a brief pause.

Since _because there’s some kind of understanding between them possibly to do with the parents hoping Pansy and Malfoy will get married someday and also their parents went to Death Eater parties together_ wasn’t an answer he could give, Harry just grinned. “She argues with him the least of all of us.”

“Plus, Malfoy thinks she’s pretty?” Neville said.

“Excuse you,” Blaise said. “We all know who’s the most attractive person in this room, and no offense, Pans, but it’s not you.”

“I would be mad at you,” Pansy said, “but your cheekbones make it impossible to argue that point.”

“Do we have to wait on Fred and George to do gifts?” Lisa said. “My mum wants me home by eleven.”

“What time is it?” Harry asked.

Neville checked his watch. “Quarter past ten.”

“Let’s give them a bit longer,” Blaise said.

Not three seconds after this, the fireplace whooshed to life. Harry perked up. He’d have to go drag Sirius out of the drawing room, where he and Tate and Laurens and two or three other people he’d met at the gala were probably well on their way through a bottle of firewhiskey, to make sure Sirius met the twins—

It wasn’t Weasley red hair that solidified out of the fire, but a familiar black mess, followed by a brownish forehead and then round glasses and then the rest of Jules Potter awkwardly staring at a room full of people he didn’t get on with.

“Er,” he said. “Hi.”

Neville recovered first. “Hi, Jules. Join us?”

“Uh, no thanks, I’m not staying long.” Jules shifted his feet. “I just… I’m sorry for Ron, okay? He’s my best mate but I know he can be… hard to handle sometimes. For other people. He has a temper, and he’s—his family has a history with the Malfoys, and it kind of soured him to Slytherin in general.”

“We noticed,” Daphne said, looking at Jules like a cat might look at a rodent when it was getting a bit hungry.

“I appreciate you having more sense than dear Ronald,” Blaise said, raising his butterbeer slightly in Jules’ direction.

“Right,” Jules said. “Have you opened your gift yet?”

“No,” Harry said, raising an eyebrow. The gift had felt like a box, clumsily wrapped in paper decorated with several dozen miniscule pairs of Chasers tossing tiny Quaffles around, a constant stream of movement. He’d been reluctantly touched when Marnee popped up to Jules’ room and came back with the gift. Jules had taken the time to wrap it himself. “We’re waiting on Fred and George.”

“Why would they… oh,” Jules said. “They did the explosion, didn’t they?”

“So you _didn’t_ take all the brain cells from your parents’ gene pool, Harry,” Anthony said. “I was wondering.”

Neville choked on his butterbeer. Jules made a face.

Harry kept his amusement off his face with an effort. “Sure you don’t want to sit?” he said.

“Yeah, thanks,” Jules said. “Er. Happy birthday, Harry. I’ll see you around?”

“Sure,” Harry said, examining his brother. Was Jules, possibly, starting to figure things out? “We could go to the Leaky for lunch sometime.”

“I’ll write you,” Jules said, and stepped back into the fireplace with unmistakable relief at escaping the not-especially-friendly looks he was getting from Daphne, Pansy, Anthony, and Lisa. “Potter Manor!” he called, and disappeared in a gout of flame.

“That was weird,” Sue said. “Didn’t you like _just_ have a fight?”

Harry stared pensively at the fireplace. “Someone might’ve pointed out to him that all this isn’t my fault.”

“Or maybe he saw how his friend acted and finally kicked a few brain cells into action,” Lisa said.

Daphne snorted. “He’s got about as much intelligence as a kneazle kitten.”

“Better than Ronald,” Pansy said.

“His Wrackspurts were struggling,” Luna said.

Blaise and Harry and Neville swapped glances, remembering the conversation from earlier that revealed her Wrackspurts might just be a complicated and eccentric metaphor. “Like they couldn’t get in his head?” Blaise said.

“Yes.” Luna sipped her weird drink. Someone had to have put a Refilling Charm on that goblet; she’d been working on the same one for two hours. “Floating around… He seems to be resisting them.”

 _What?_ Lisa mouthed.

Sue, though—she narrowed her eyes at Luna, and Anthony cocked his head. “A metaphor?” he said.

Luna smiled.

 _I think so,_ Harry mouthed back.

Anthony nodded slowly. Lisa and Sue got what Harry called “the Ravenclaw look” that meant they had a new interest. Hopefully if they saw through to the strange brilliance Harry suspected she hid under her batty exterior, she might have fewer issues in her House this year.

George and Fred showed up a few minutes later, spraying confetti out of their wands, and had almost everyone (Harry still refused to laugh in front of people) in stitches with their tale of detonating a prototype _something_ underwater and then getting yelled at by their mother, who was no fool. Neville and Harry opened their gifts. Harry was pleased with the assortment of books, quills, sweets, a cashmere Slytherin scarf from Pansy, an enchanted leather notebook that would add or delete pages wherever he wanted without ever becoming thicker or thinner to hold from Theo, a new wand holster spelled to resist Summoning Charms from Neville, and an old and fairly precious book on wizarding familiars from Blaise. Neville had a pile that was every bit as large as Harry’s.

 _This is a memory I can put into a Patronus_. Harry wrapped the scarf around his neck immediately, grinning at Pansy, even though it was really too hot in the kitchen for it, and happily stacked his books on one of the counters to put away later.

Sirius had insisted on giving Harry his gift later, in private, so the last one on the table after everyone else had handed something over surprised Harry for just a minute until he remembered—

“Is that from Jules?” Theo said.

“Yep.” Harry turned the box over cautiously. Jules hadn’t _seemed_ like he was hiding anything… but maybe he was a better actor than Harry gave him credit for.

Theo and Daphne seemed to arrive at the same conclusion. They both fired off a series of detection spells. Harry joined in with a few extras he’d learned from the older Quidditch boys the previous year. Nothing showed up. Seemed the gift really was benign.

“Where did you learn all those?” Anthony said.

“Slytherins learn them first year at some point,” Pansy said as Harry started unwrapping the paper. Some lingering spark of sentimentality made him peel it apart carefully and fold it and set it aside. “We like to look out for trick gifts.”

“Is that common?” Lisa said.

“More than people think,” Luna said. “I’ve gotten several each year.”

“From who?” Sue said. “Everything sent into the Tower gets vetted.”

“They were wrapped in our dorms,” Luna said unconcernedly.

All three older Ravenclaws looked shocked. “Our _House mates_ do this to you?” Anthony said.

Luna shrugged.

Lisa and Sue swapped a worried look. Harry winked at Neville, who smiled back; the Gryffindor’s decision to semi-adopt Luna seemed to have been a good one.

Then he opened the box and saw the title of the book Jules had gotten him and fell still.

Theo leaned over. “ _Parselmouths in History_ ,” he read. _“Written and Translated by Lo Batra._ This is from India.”

“Huh,” Harry said. “I was… not expecting this.”

“Olive branch?” George said.

“It would seem so.” Harry carefully set the book aside.

“Ten to one says James has no idea what Jules got you,” Pansy said.

“No bet,” Sue and Lisa said in unison.

They moved on, and time passed, and people started to leave—both Harry’s friends and Sirius’ guests, the latter group distinctly tipsy—and the whole time, Harry had that book sitting in the back of his mind. He couldn’t stop wondering what prompted Jules’ sudden change of heart.

 

That night, for the first time in over a year, Harry had one of his old nightmares.

He no longer put sound wards up around his bed, partly because he wasn’t in his dorm and partly because he didn’t really need them anymore. He was woken mid-scream by Sirius shouting and shaking him.

He choked himself off and then let out a ragged sob. And another. Curled in on himself in his bed and tried to push images of James taunting him for being useless and worthless and throwing him into the cupboard while Dudley licked an ice cream in the background out of his head.

Sirius laid a hand on his shoulder. Harry flinched away from the contact, but then he looked up and remembered this was _Sirius_ , this was a man who’d never done anything but care, and he very slowly forced himself to lean into the touch a little.

“It’s okay,” Sirius said, his voice sleep-rusty, and he pulled Harry cautiously into a hug.

At first it was hard. Harry’s entire body tensed with the echoes of a childhood in which the only physical contact he ever had with others was hostile and resulted in pain. Sirius held him just as tightly, whispering _it’s okay, it’ll be all right, I’m here for you,_ and somehow it wasn’t confining—it was grounding.

Gradually, Harry’s sobs petered out.

Sirius let him go cautiously.

“Thank you,” Harry whispered.

“No need,” Sirius said. He shifted around until he was sitting on the foot of Harry’s bed, leaning up against the footboard. “You… better?”

Better. Not _okay_. Sirius understood nightmares. You were never _okay_ after them.

“I will be,” Harry said. He couldn’t bring himself to unwrap his arms from around his knees, but he loosened his grip and unclenched his muscles a bit before they cramped. “I just… sorry. Haven’t had one of those in… a long time.”

“ _Never_ be sorry,” Sirius said vehemently. “It’s not your fault.”

Harry breathed—in, out, in, out—and nodded. Forced himself to remember that, and _believe_ it.

“Want to talk about it?”

“James,” Harry said shortly. “Dursleys.”

Sirius’ wand hand flexed. “I’ll kill them.”

“I’d rather you didn’t go back to prison,” Harry muttered.

“If I actually wanted to kill someone, you really think I’d get caught?” Sirius retorted.

“Also, I think I have more of a right to doing that than you do,” Harry said.

Sirius smiled his Azkaban grin. “True.”

Pause.

“We’re messed up,” Harry said. “Aren’t we.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Sirius said. Their voices were quiet in the dark room. Harry couldn’t remember the last time he felt this… not _safe_ , but—comfortable, yes, that was the word, this comfortable with another person. “Growing up a Black doesn’t do much in the way of morals. Don’t know if it’s been bred out or if it’s a nurture thing. I had to rely on my friends to let me know when something I said or did crossed a line…”

Lupin the coward, Pettigrew the traitor, James the bully. “How’d that work out for you?” Harry said.

Sirius grimaced. “Do their lines even matter if they’re the kind of people who…”

Harry stared down at his hands. “I think they broke something in me,” he whispered. “The Dursleys. And James threw the last blow. I wonder…” _If I’ll know when to stop._

“We’ll figure it out,” Sirius promised. “Merlin knows I’m not the best—role model, but—I’ll do my best. We’ll make it work.”

“Wouldn’t have anyone else,” Harry said with a half-smile. The nightmare was fading, replaced by this: Sirius and late-night honesty and trust and affection and the unfamiliar, impossible feeling of being able to rely on an adult just to be here. Harry didn’t need anyone to be perfect. He needed someone to _be there._

“Want me to stay?” Sirius said.

Harry’s _please_ choked in his throat, because it felt too much like weakness to say yes. Sirius saw it in his face anyway and grabbed one of the extra pillows, stuffing it behind his back. “I’m not going anywhere until you fall asleep,” he said firmly.

Harry slowly settled back down, curling up on his side the way he used to on his cot to conserve body heat or nurse bruises. He angled himself so even with his head on the pillows he could keep an eye on Sirius. Long-ingrained instincts wouldn’t let him fall asleep with someone in the room unless he had at least a line of sight on them. “Why’d James bring up your brother?” he said. “What’s the story there?”

Sirius frowned slightly. Not like he was angry, more—thinking. “It’s… a long one,” he said. “And complicated. I’ll tell you about Regulus… another time.”

“Okay.”

“Just the good parts tonight?” Sirius said.

Harry half-smiled again. “Sure.” _Might help me fall asleep again._

And it did. He slipped into a doze listening to Sirius tell fond stories of a brother two years younger, a brother who was Sirius’ opposite in many ways but still a friend and sometimes confidante, a sibling who played pranks on family members and sneaked firewhiskey and practiced magic using parents’ wands and fell asleep in a pile on the couch after snowball fights with Sirius when they were kids.

When the stories petered out and Sirius’ weight shifted, Harry came awake again, muscles tensing slightly to fight or flee, but he pretended to be sound asleep and waited. His brain would never let him relax completely with someone so close by but he was close to sleep now, relaxed and ready to drift off…

“Goodnight,” Sirius whispered, voice still rough with tiredness, and he stood by Harry’s bed a minute before he left.

The door clicked shut. Harry pulled his knees a little tighter towards his chest and let his eyes fall closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm a little late on this one! real life is nuts right now. This chapter is long, but this is where it wants to end, so I left it. 
> 
> points for whoever spots the 3 Hamilton references ;) 
> 
> ALSO SIDE NOTE I JUST SAW INFINITY WAR AND MARVEL IS MY NUMBER 2 FANDOM AND HOLY FUCKING ACTUAL SHIT I’M TRAUMATIZED IF YOU LIKE MARVEL FUCKIN WATCH IT DEAR GOD one of my friends is freaking out in Turkish on the phone, the other is crying, and i'm playing Hogwarts Magic for therapy 
> 
> oh also also, anyone with an iphone, Harry Potter: Hogwarts Mystery is out on iOS, and it's fucking fantastic, I'm halfway through Year 1 right now and addicted. please please go look.


	6. Chapter 6

“You look like death.”

“Thanks,” Harry said sarcastically, hunched over his breakfast. He’d been drawing patterns in the jam on his toast for long enough that the bread was cold.

Sirius slouched into a chair across from him. “Kreacher, have we got any Hangover Cure potion?”

“None that was brewed less than six years ago,” Kreacher said.

“Merlin’s balls,” Sirius muttered.

“I can brew some,” Harry said. “As soon as I—” A yawn forced its way into the middle of his sentence. “—Excuse me. As soon as I wake up a bit. And find a recipe.” It was just what he needed after last night—a project, a task, the objective and subtle and slow and fascinating magic of potions.

“Er,” Sirius said.

“Snape sends my potions up to Pomfrey sometimes,” Harry said indifferently. “Hangover’s pretty simple, right? I read about it at some point second year. You can supervise me if you like.”

“No, I’m sure it’s fine,” Sirius said. “If Snape of all people thinks your brews are good enough for the hospital wing, I’ll drink it.” He grinned suddenly, which made it less noticeable that for all his teasing he looked near as bad as Harry. “Perfect timing. The laboratory’s just waiting to be used.”

Harry grinned back at the memory of the pristine potions laboratory. He’d only seen it once, the previous morning, before he and Sirius were chased out by the apothecary who was very finicky about his work arranging the new ingredients. He couldn’t _wait_ to use it. It was amazing how fast renovating a space that size went when the construction people had magic.

 “Oh,” Sirius said, “and I forgot… Kreacher, can you grab the, er…”

“Yes, Master Sirius.”

Kreacher popped out. Harry eyed Sirius. “This isn’t a prank, right?”

“I don’t think that elf would help me prank you even if I ordered him to,” Sirius muttered. “I think he likes you more than me.”

“He comes from a family of Slytherins,” Harry said with only a trace of a smirk. “Of course he likes me better.”

Two seconds later, he choked on his water. “Did you just stick your tongue out at me? What are you, five?”

“I wish,” Sirius said. “Everything’s easier when you’re five. No one expects you to eat healthy, or have a job, or get _married_ …”

Kreacher popped back into the room, carrying two wrapped parcels.

“Thanks, Kreacher,” Sirius said, taking them both. He still couldn’t quite disguise his distaste at the sight of his house-elf; Harry strongly suspected that was the real reason Kreacher preferred Harry. Elf and master had a truce but they’d never _like_ each other.

“I meant to give these to you last night, but—well,” Sirius said. “Your friends were around, and then I was…”

“Drunk,” Harry said. “I noticed.” A large black dog staggering down the hallway and running into a door three times before he realized he was in his animagus form and therefore had no hands, and that he needed to change back to human (which took five minutes) in order to get into his bedroom, was an image that would stay one of Harry’s most cherished memories.

Sirius grinned a little bit. “James and Peter and I got plastered on Muggle vodka once. Peter got it for us, and then he bet James that he was too drunk to shift into his other form. James took the bet only if Peter did. The rat was less drunk than the rest of us, little shit, and he changed back no problem, but James was stuck for ages. And of course I was the one who had to go chase a drunk deer through Muggle London.”

Harry looked carefully at him, resting his hands on the smaller parcel but not opening it. “You… talk about them like…”

“Like I don’t hate them?” Sirius said harshly.

Harry shrugged.

Sirius squeezed his eyes closed for a second. “It’s… almost like there’s… two different versions of each of them in my head, you know? I can’t… I missed twelve years. That’s not a small amount of time. Remus and James are both… unrecognizable now. And Peter’s—I still can’t fathom why… or how… he turned. I can try to reason it out but it makes no goddamn sense. And—my friends were the _only_ bright spot from before the war. I have to separate who they were then from who they are now.” _Or I’ll go crazy_ went unsaid.

“Well,” Harry said, and summoned a smile with a monumental effort. “Last night sure looked like you’re well on your way to making new friends.”

“Vanessa and Hazel have some _interesting_ friends,” Sirius said, perking right up. “I’ll tell you all about them—go on, open it already—”

“Hold your hippogriffs, I’m working on it,” Harry said, tearing into the smaller parcel. Inside was… a mirror?

“Wow,” he said, straight-faced. “I’ve never seen one of these before.”

“They’ve got to give ‘how to be an asshole’ lessons to you lot in the dungeons from day one,” Sirius said. “You’re all like this. James and I made these when we were teenagers. Say my name to it and mine will light up and make a noise. Yours’ll do the same if I say your name to mine. Whoever’s on the receiving end says the other person’s name back and then we can talk.”

 _This is the most ridiculously codependent thing I have ever heard of_ , Harry thought, but at the same time he was… touched. Actually genuinely touched, and insanely happy, that Sirius had willingly given him such an easy way to contact him, had made it so clear that he was… that he _wanted_ Harry to contact him.

“Thanks,” Harry managed, trying not to sound as emotional as he felt. “I… thank you.”

“Contact me whenever you want,” Sirius said. “It’s a lot easier than letters. And I’m sure you noticed, but I heard some interesting things about Hogwarts this year. You might need to talk to me.”

Harry squinted at him suspiciously. “We _did_ notice. Currently trying to get it out of Malfoy. Do you know what’s going on?”

“I’d tell you if I did,” Sirius said, looking annoyed. “They won’t even tell the Wizengamot.”

“Huh. I’ll definitely use it,” Harry said. “And if Malfoy tells Pansy anything, I’ll let you know.”

Sirius smirked. “Oh, it will be _wonderful_ to rub that in Remus’ face… James knows, and he won’t tell.”

Harry snickered, but his mind was already ranging ahead, wondering how they’d linked the mirror and if it was possible to do the same with a set of more than two things. He’d been wishing for years that telephones worked around wards and magic. Letters and owl post were aesthetic and interesting, but it would be so much nicer to communicate instantly, and to not have to write everything down four or seven or nine different times depending on who he was telling stories to. Riddle’s diary back in second year had been a nasty bit of Dark magic, but if Harry could do something similar without copying himself into the pages, it could be insanely useful. He made a note to write Hermione and Theo about this idea.

“Open the other one,” Sirius urged.

Oh. Right. Harry refocused and picked up the second package. It was bigger and bulkier and heavy.

He pulled the paper off and felt the words _it’s… a box?_ leap immediately to mind. Harry bit them back; he’d already had some fun at Sirius’ expense with the mirror. Twice in a row wasn’t funny. Well, it _was_ , but he was trying to be nice. He turned the box around in his hands; it looked like it could fit maybe a volleyball, although with magic, appearances could be deceiving.

The lid came into view and he paused.

“I had it done special,” Sirius said, shifting. “If… if you don’t like it, we can have it changed, or—”

“No,” Harry said, running his fingers over the crest engraved on the top of the plain black wooden box. “No, it’s—I like it.”

Instead of being a triangle, the gnarled branches (or possibly antlers) of the Potter crest now formed a circle, and inside it lay the Potter triple stars over the crossed athames of the Blacks. A combination of two families.

He wasn’t stupid; he’d read up on family crests second year when he first noticed some of the upper years subtly wearing pins on cloaks or hats with a crest on them. A combination was a complicated thing to design. Technically this still indicated his stronger ties to House Potter, since the three stars and the branch pattern were two elements of the Potter crest while the crossed athames was one from the Blacks, but it also told anyone who cared to look that Harry now belonged nearly as strongly to House Black as he was to the House of his birth.

With a blink, he realized Sirius was talking. “—same company that makes Snitches. They’re masters of craft that involves flesh memories, I’m sure you know Snitches are made with gloves and never touched before their capture so they can tell who touched them first… The box will only open for you now that you’ve held it.”

The silver latch opened easily at Harry’s touch. He looked inside and grinned; just like he’d thought, the box was a lot bigger on the inside than it looked. “This is great, Sirius, thanks,” he said. “Wait, there’s… what’s inside? You didn’t have to…”

“I wanted to,” Sirius said.

Harry pulled out the two items in the box. One was a silver cloak pin engraved with the combined Potter-Black crest; three tiny emeralds glittered in the place of the Potter triple stars. The other was a simple iron key.

“The key’s a Portkey,” Sirius explained. “Grandfather Arcturus’ idea of a joke. Hold it and say “Black Library” and you’ll be transported there; as long as it never breaks skin contact, you can just say “Homeward” and it’ll take you back where you came from. Highly illegal; it’ll get you even out of the Hogwarts wards, and back in if that’s where you came from. Regulus and I—mostly Regulus—we used it to come home and get books the Hogwarts library doesn’t have or wouldn’t let us access, or just to… come and sit here sometimes. To get away from—everyone at school. He and Barty used it sometimes, I suspect…” He shook himself, doglike. “Point is, you can use it to get to and access our library, if you want. Or just escape the Slytherin politics for a bit. Or if—something goes wrong, and you need an emergency exit.”

Harry stopped himself running this thumb over the Nott Manor portkey on his index finger, as had become something of a habit. He had told no one about Theo’s gift.

“I’ll definitely be using this,” Harry said instead, tapping the key with a smirk. He tucked it into his pocket and resolved to find a leather cord of some kind so he could wear it around his neck, under his robes. It was always good to have multiple last-ditch exit strategies. Though he’d have to be careful never to say _Black Library_ while he was wearing it. It’d be bad to suddenly disappear via secret and probably illegal Portkey in the middle of a conversation.

Sirius grinned. “I thought as much. Did you get good gifts from your friends?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, sensing an opening for a conversation he’d been wanting to have for some time. “Er, a wand holster from Neville… Oh, and Blaise gave me this really interesting book on wizarding familiars. Jules’ was probably the weirdest.” He watched Sirius carefully. “It’s _Parselmouths in History_ , by Lo Batra—from India.”

“No way does James know about that,” Sirius said.

Harry smirked. “That’s what we decided, too.” And then, since Sirius didn’t look—angry or disturbed or anything by the idea of Parselmouths, he went for it. “There’s… something I need to tell you.”

Sirius didn’t look up from spreading jam on his toast. “Fire away.”

“I have a familiar.”

“What, Alekta?” Sirius shrugged. “It’s more common than you’d think for owls to form a familiar bond with their owner; they’re predisposed for it, and the dependency on your magic—”

“Not Alekta,” Harry interrupted. “I’ve, er, kept my familiar a secret.”

Sirius sighed. “Oh Merlin, you have a snake, don’t you?”

Harry blinked.

“I’m not an idiot,” Sirius said. “Just because I’m Gryffindor doesn’t mean I can’t make logical guesses. There’d be no reason for you to keep your familiar a secret unless it has to do with the fact that you’re a Parselmouth, as everyone knows after your second year. Does that ever cause you problems, by the way? And can I meet…”

“Her,” Harry said. “Eriss. She’s—hang on.”

He clumsily fumbled for the magic that tied him to Eriss. It was a faint bond, since they were both young and his magical core was still immature and he also was very new to the concept of familiar magic. They could send a crude sort of _I need you_ sentiment to one another, though, and that was really all he needed.

Unformed assent rippled back a few seconds later, and he opened his eyes. “She’s coming. No—I mean, in Slytherin, being a Parselmouth’s… a status thing, and…”

He considered the nuances of Slytherin politics and how Parseltongue played into them. On the one hand, it definitely helped silence the mutters that Harry didn’t belong there, that no Potter would ever be a true Slytherin, and it had turned some of the upper years’ hatred of him into grudging interest and caution. On the other, it was a link to Voldemort… and Harry _really_ did not want anyone looking into his ancestry and discovering that both he and Jules _were_ Heirs of Slytherin. Well, technically, just Harry, because out of the two of them only Harry had inherited the family magic.

As Harry felt like explaining absolutely none of that to Sirius, he went with “My House mates accept it and everyone else seems to still think it’s evil but they don’t think _I’m_ evil so they just… conveniently forget.”

“Nice of them,” Sirius said.

Eriss slipped in the door. He didn’t notice.

Harry sighed. “Sirius, look. By the door.” If he pointed, and specifically drew Sirius’ attention there, then the Notice-Me-Not should fail—

Sirius looked, blinked, narrowed his eyes the way he did when he was using Occlumency, and then jumped about three inches into the air. “How—it—she just appeared?”

“Notice-Me-Not charm.” Harry held out a hand and Eriss lifted her head and about half her body off the floor; she began climbing his arm as he lifted her the rest of the way up. “I’ve gotten really good at them in the last year.”

“Huh.” Sirius eyed Eriss with not a little nervousness, but also a sort of determined bravado. It was one of the few times Harry could remember appreciating Gryffindor bravery. “That’s… impressive. That you’ve managed to keep her a secret. Does she—understand English?”

Eriss lifted her head and hissed softly in Sirius’ direction. To his credit, he only curled his lips back from his teeth in a probably unconscious canine gesture.

 _“I like him,”_ Eriss said. _“He’s not afraid of me.”_

  _“He doesn’t seem to be afraid of much_ ,” Harry said.

“That’s a yes, then,” Sirius said.

Harry shrugged one shoulder. “Some. She’s learning.”

“What’d you say, just now?”

“She likes you,” Harry said, smirking. “Most people shriek when they see a meter-long snake coming their direction. It annoys her.”

“I’ll be sure not to annoy her,” Sirius muttered. “You kept this a secret because… you thought I’d be mad?”

“I… thought it was a possibility, yeah.” Harry absently scratched Eriss under the chin. “Are you?”

“Course not,” Sirius said. Eyes relaxed, forehead smooth, no trace of guile in his face. “She’s your familiar, isn’t she? And bonded familiars are the exception to the pets rule at Hogwarts—oh, but you keep her a secret there too, don’t you?”

Harry nodded. “Mostly because James would have a stroke and up until this summer, I had to be careful not to antagonize him too much… I’m considering letting at least my House know about her this year. We’ll see.”

“Can you trust them to keep it a secret?” Sirius said.

“Literally the first House rule is Slytherin unity,” Harry said. “I’ll handle it.”

“Regulus was always horribly tight-lipped about those,” Sirius said. “Don’t suppose you’d tell me your precious House rules?”

Harry grinned at him, passing his empty plate to the sink. Kreacher appeared out of nowhere and set it washing itself. “Not a chance. And if you keep pressuring me about it, I’ll go to my room instead of the potions laboratory, and you’ll have to venture out to Diagon to get rid of that hangover.”

Sirius raised his hands in surrender. “No, no, it’s fine, keep your rules to yourself…”

“That’s what I thought,” Harry agreed, and ran up the stairs with Eriss happily draped across his shoulders in full view. Time to enjoy the amazing private potions laboratory he was already thinking of as _his_.

 

With regret, Harry left the new cloak pin behind when he went to meet Jules in the Leaky Cauldron. He would rub Jules’ face in the combined Potter-Black crest some other time. Today was about diplomacy.

He stepped out of the fireplace with a polite nod and a sickle for Old Tom. The barman returned his gap-toothed smile and pointed Harry towards a booth in the back of the Leaky, where the dim ambiance made it difficult to see who was sitting at each table. Two glasses of water, one half-empty and one untouched, waited on it.

“Little brother,” he said.

Jules looked up and grinned, a cautious shade of the guileless and unreserved expression he wore around his friends. “Harry, hi.”

Harry slid into the booth opposite his brother, determined to at least try and make this work. No matter how awkward it felt right now. “How was the party after we left?”

“Eh… boring, really,” Jules admitted. Harry worked to keep tension out of his posture. He would _not_ be as easy to read as his brother, sitting there stiff as a petrification victim. “Ron and Seamus and Dean and… the rest of us went up to the fourth floor rec hall, and just hung out and opened presents and stuff. Oh, and I ordered us both a steak and potato salad.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, trying on a smile. “I see you’re wearing the ring.”

Jules held up his hand; his grin turned more genuine. The gold band sat on his right middle finger, glinting. “Fits me perfectly. Parvati’s pretty good with potions; she and I had some fun testing it the day after the party.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “I hope you didn’t actually _drink_ the poison. The ring’s only a warning—”

“Of course not,” Jules said, rolling his eyes. “I’m not stupid.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Harry said under his breath.

Jules scowled. “If you’re talking about my Potions grade, that’s because Snape hates me.”

Harry counted to five in his head. He _hadn’t_ been referencing Jules’ performance in the end-of-term standings, which had been mediocre in most of his classes, excellent in Defense, and dismal in Potions and History. More the constant recklessness and refusal to think ahead. “I’m not going to argue with you about Snape.”

“Why not?” Jules challenged. “Afraid you’ll lose?”

“No, actually,” Harry said. Under the table, his wand hand compulsively tightened into a fist. “I just don’t feel like starting an argument that will go nowhere when I thought we were here to try and mend fences.”

Jules had the grace to look embarrassed. “Right. Sorry.”

 _I will never not be amazed at how easily other people throw apologies around._ “It’s perfectly fine. Speaking of which, what prompted this sudden willingness to acknowledge that you have a brother?”

“Hermione,” Jules said. “She wrote me a very angry letter two weeks ago. It kind of… Look, I—Dad always said you were—exaggerating what it was like with Mum’s sister. For you. As a kid. Hermione kind of—slapped me in the face and made me realize you aren’t.”

Harry sipped his water. He’d have to write Hermione a thank-you letter later. “No. I never have.”

“Right. Er… sorry about that,” Jules said.

“Apology accepted,” Harry said.

They sat in silence for a few seconds.

“This doesn’t mean I like you,” Jules added rather suddenly. Harry almost smiled. _This_ was familiar. “You’re still kind of a prat sometimes—and I don’t like Slytherins—but—you’re not a liar. About that. And you’re my brother. So we might as well try… to be brothers, right?”

“Might as well,” Harry said, and now he _did_ smile, and it actually felt… real. Kind of. More so than he’d have expected for an expression leveled at Jules. “And I still think you can be a prat sometimes.”

“Great,” Jules said. “We’re both prats. Did you like the book? Hermione says you read a lot.”

“I do,” Harry said, grinning. “It looks fascinating. I’m in the middle of one Blaise gave me so I haven’t done more than skim the contents yet.”

“I’d, um, appreciate if you didn’t tell Dad what I got you,” Jules said.

Harry snorted. “I’m a Slytherin, little brother. Discretion is one thing I do quite well.” He paused. “Besides, I can’t think of any single moment in our entire history where I’ve considered you a bigger pain in my arse than dear old Dad, so you should be fine.”

Jules bit his lip.

Given their history, it was probably better to turn the conversation away from topics like this. “Anyway,” Harry said, leaning forward and giving every indication of focused, willing interest. “Have you gotten to fly much this summer?”

 

His sigh preceded him out of the Grimmauld Place Floo.

Kreacher popped into the kitchen before Harry got more than three steps across it. “Is Master Harry needing anything?”

“Not right now, thanks,” Harry said. “Where’s Sirius?”

“In his… workshop,” Kreacher said, distaste coloring his voice.

Harry snickered. A week ago, Sirius had Confunded the Muggles next door into moving and bought their house at the asking price within hours of it going up on the market. Since then, he had used magic and stubbornness to transform the bottom floor into a mechanics’ garage and put the top two stories up for rent. The Muggle tenants were moving in sometime in mid-September, and Harry was just glad he’d managed to talk Sirius out of gutting the ground floor of 12 Grimmauld Place for his ‘shop’. He rather liked the living and sitting rooms, and the front hall and its chandeliers and the grand staircase at its end.

Refusing to go outside to go between 12 and 11, Sirius had just knocked a hole in the wall and replaced it with a door. Harry undid the glamour charms hiding it to avoid disrupting the appearance of the ground-floor living room and muttered the password.

The door leaped open, and noise spilled through—an engine revving, followed by a mechanical sputter, and then a curse. The soundproofing spells only worked when the doors were all closed.

“Sirius?” Harry yelled.

Something banged, and then the engine cut out.

Harry edged forward. The first time he’d come in here, the ward spells got weird, and one of the shelves tried to smash him into the new concrete floor. (Sirius had been almost as excited to learn about concrete as he had paint thinner.) “You there?”

“Harry!” Sirius’ head popped up from behind the open hood of what looked to be a perfectly normal used Muggle car. His hair was tied back and grease and sweat streaked his face. “How was lunch?”

“Er… good,” Harry said, still eyeing the shelves.

Sirius waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about those, I tweaked the spells. They’ll ignore you now.”

Harry relaxed just a little. “Ah, okay.”

“Tell me about Jules,” Sirius said, closing the hood of the car. “And would you mind Scourgifying me?” He held his hands out towards Harry, who could understand perfectly why Sirius didn’t want to touch his own wand and get grease all over them.

“ _Scourgify,”_ Harry said. The grease and grime vanished from Sirius’ palms and arms.

“Thanks.”

“No problem. Jules was… He still thinks I’m a prat, apparently, and we didn’t bring you up at all, but apparently Hermione wrote him a strongly worded letter.” Harry boosted himself up onto a nearby countertop, after checking that there was no grease or oil on it that might stain his robes. “I’m going to have to thank her later. He seems like he’s willing to call a truce.”

Sirius eyed him shrewdly. “And you aren’t quite willing to turn your back on your brother, no matter how much has happened between you?”

“That obvious?” Harry said, grimacing. He _hated_ that for all their problems and poor history, he couldn’t just… turn off the part of him that still desperately and unrelentingly wanted to have his blood brother as actual family.

Sirius shrugged. “Not to most people. You forget, I—had a brother, too.”

Harry watched him. “Regulus.”

“Yep.” Sirius leaned on the car. His eyes skipped around the room, unsure where to look, as long as it wasn’t Harry.

“Can I… hear that story now?” Harry said softly.

“Might as well.” Sirius did something jerky with his hand that might have started as a dismissive wave. “He… we grew up… close. But—I could never just shut up and take our parents’ bullshit the way he did, you know? It wasn’t _right_ , I knew that, I wanted—I wanted them to approve of me, but not at the cost of—they’d take away our toys and books, lock us in our rooms, sometimes leave one of us in a Body-Bind for hours on end propped up in some random place—I had to hang by my feet for three hours from the front chandelier when I was eight. I always fought back when they did something I didn’t like.” He laughed self-deprecatingly while Harry struggled with an unfamiliar emotion he thought was empathy. “Which was often. Remember what I said about me not having a good sense of when to stop? Or much in the way of morals? Yeah, sometimes it was stepping in to shield Reg or protest some crazy limb Mum crawled out on… but others they were taking away my stuff for whatever stupid reason and I’d just. Argue. Couldn’t seem to stop. I’ve always been a wild card, I guess.”

“Or just a Gryffindor,” Harry said drily.

Sirius snorted. “Or that… Anyway, Reg was—not like that. Quiet, and cautious, and he’d just _take_ it without arguing—I think his strategy was to take whatever came and slip away as soon as possible, that he figured he couldn’t stop it by resisting so he’d just avoid as much damage as possible. Opposite approach from what I took. And he eventually started resenting me always jumping in front of him—yelled at me in his first year right after Yule break that I was always assuming he was too weak to take it, and I yelled back that he shouldn’t have to take it at _all_ , and he cursed me, and long story short, we set one of the common leisure rooms on the first floor on fire.”

 _This is like a cautionary tale for all the possible miscommunications between Slytherins and Gryffindors_ , Harry wanted to say.

“So… we were always out to protect each other, but I argued with him near as much as I did my parents. It only got worse once school started. I got sorted Gryffindor, and it was the hex that broke the shield charm. Mum and Dad always favored Reg but after that it was _so_ much worse. He was the golden child, the quiet one who did as he was told and never broke a rule—he never stood up for me that year, or the year after, when they cursed me as easily as breathe.” Sirius’ voice got bitter. “Slytherin self-preservation. I’d catch him lurking guiltily behind them and sometimes he’d show up in my room with pain-relief potions, nab my wand and cast healing charms when I couldn’t, but it—he just watched.”

“That’s why you had such a problem with Slytherin,” Harry said.

“Among other reasons, yeah,” Sirius said. “House of cunning and self-preservation and ambition—twelve-year-old me took my brother’s actions as Slytherin values, and I guess I got mad he never jumped in for me like I used to do for him. I couldn’t even process that he was only trying to survive, like me, except the only way he knew to do it was different. I just took it as a betrayal.”

Harry angled his head. “You’re… very self-aware about all this.”

That bitter laugh again. “I had a lot of time to think in Azkaban. Not a whole lot else to do after the first while, besides stare at the walls and try not to feel madness gibbering like the barbarians at the gates. I swapped between going back over my memories to try and hold onto them, shoring up my Occlumency shields, and fantasizing about revenge.

“So when Reg got Sorted into Slytherin… it was the second-best and second-worst day of my life, falling right after my own Sorting.”

“Angry letters?” Harry guessed.

“Worse. Howlers. One a day for weeks. Then, nothing, until we went home. Mum tried not to let me join the family rites at Yule, but Grandfather stepped in.”

“Arcturus,” Harry said. “The old Lord Black.”

Sirius nodded. “He kept them from cutting me out entirely. That was the year… That was the first time they used Crucio on me.”

Harry sucked in a breath. An Unforgivable, on an eleven-year-old? Worse, on their own _child_?

“Yeah,” Sirius said grimly. “Wasn’t fun. Reg was there. That one I didn’t even blame him for staying quiet about. I’d never have wished it on my brother no matter what a horrible little backstabbing shit I thought he was at that point.”

“Did you fight at school much?” Harry said.

“We left each other alone, mostly,” Sirius said. “After that big fight his first year. I kind of… looked out for him from a distance… James and Remus tried to go after him a few times, but I shut them down. Regulus was off-limits. He apparently did something to keep the worst of Slytherin retaliation aimed a little away from me, but he was younger, and…”

“Slytherin politics,” Harry said, nodding. “Younger years haven’t got much pull.”

“I, of course, had no idea at the _time_ ,” Sirius said. “Avery threw it back in my face, years later, that I’d turned my back on the brother who was always trying to protect me from… their crowd in school.”

“Avery,” Harry said. “Death Eater, wasn’t he?”

Sirius nodded slowly. “There was… a whole crew of them, coming up through Hogwarts in my time, you could just _tell_ who had sympathies. It was a political debate too but I ignored all of that. My family was on one side and my friends were on the other, and that was all that mattered.”

So Sirius’ choice of sides had had nothing to do with politics. Harry added that to the growing pile of thoughts to examine later because they made him uncomfortable to look at too directly _now_ and asked, “And… Barty Crouch?”

“You know Barty Crouch Sr., right?” Sirius said. “High up in the Ministry?”

“Yes. He’s Head of International Magical Cooperation now,” Harry said. That was one person he’d researched fairly extensively trying to catch up on the years of history he’d missed growing up Muggle, and the war was integral to understanding anything about wizarding politics in Hogwarts and in their world as a whole. “They got a little nervous about his zealotry after the war and the Death Eater trials and put him out to pasture.”

“Bastard,” Sirius muttered. “You know he was Head of the DMLE then?”

Harry nodded.

“And I assume you know how fanatic he got about fighting Dark wizards.”

Another nod.

“He had a kid, the year below Reg. Bartemius Crouch Junior.” Sirius’ mouth twisted. “I never trust people who give kids the same first name as one of their parents had. Barty Junior went to Ravenclaw. Avery connected him and Reg the summer after Reg’s first year. The reserved, ambitious Slytherin, by all reports as vicious as anyone in the den of snakes except sneakier than most, and one of Ravenclaw’s brightest minds? They got on like a house on fire. Drove me mad whenever Reg brought Barty over. He wasn’t as bad as Reg’s other Slytherin friends, I guess, but still. Plus, the both of them were all the way running with—a bad crowd at that point. James and Remus and Peter couldn’t understand why I still stood up for Reg. All only children. They didn’t get it.”

“Family’s… complicated,” Harry agreed. “What happened to them?”

“Sixth year was the disaster with Snape and the vow,” Sirius said darkly. “I found out—again, a few years later—that Reg was actually in on the plan, peripherally. He was never in any danger. He blew up at Avery and Mulciber when he found out what happened. They underestimated what _do your worst_ would get out of me. Reg knew me better, and he liked Snape—Snape was a bit of a mentor to Reg and Barty both, better at Potions and really clever—and from what I heard he cursed Avery almost unconscious for not involving Reg more in the planning. He’d have known me well enough to word the damn oath a little better.”

Harry blinked. “How’d you get all these details? It seems a lot for battlefield gloating.”

“The first few months in Azkaban, before we had so much sucked out of us that talking turned into a chore. Avery was across from me on the same level—Azkaban’s a tower, with rings of cells going down,” he explained. “The lower the level, the worse it gets. Most of us _Death Eaters_ were down pretty far. Bottom levels were the horrible old Dark wizards from decades ago still hanging on to their heartbeats, plus a few of the Dark Lord’s nastier lieutenants, like Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange, Antonin Dolohov, Augustus Rookwood.

“We… talked. Avery, Mulciber, Septimus Travers, Laura Parsons, Katya Sparrow, Cecil Hoskyns… I knew all of them either from school or from Order of the Phoenix—Dumbledore’s vigilante anti-Death Eater force—intelligence. They taunted me at first but eventually—well, when there’s dementors floating around, and their boss was dead, and mine was an asshole; it kind of… you forget old allegiances. It’s humans versus monsters, never mind that a lot of people would call some of us in there monsters pretending to be human by that point.”

It should probably be concerning that Sirius included himself in the monstrous humans category.

“I heard a lot from them,” Sirius said. “Managed to keep enough sense in my head not to give up anything big in return—if they ever got out—yeah. I mean, Voldemort was confirmed “dead” about the same time I got thrown in there… but some of his other supporters could’ve broken them out. Aurors came ‘round to gloat a lot. Patronuses at their feet, dragging more Death Eaters in by the day. Some of the last were the Lestranges, threw them down on the bottom level, and Barty Crouch Jr.—they dumped him a few above for his youth… That was the last day before it got… really hellish in there. After that we didn’t talk. Mostly groaned or screamed in our sleep. Sometimes… we’d wish for the Aurors to come around and go after us. It was awful when they showed up but… they’d bring Patronuses to protect themselves.” His eyes closed. “At least when they were around the dementors’ influence backed off a little.”

“D’you need a Patronus?” Harry said softly.

Sirius took a few deep breaths and opened his eyes. “No,” he said.  “No, I’m—it helps, I think… to talk. A little.”

So Harry waited.

“Back to Regulus,” Sirius said at last. “And Barty. In 1979, Reg went on… some mission, and died. The Dark Lord came to the house and paid Lord Arcturus his respects in person, a great honor. I don’t know what the mission was. We hadn’t talked in years at that point. I ran away the summer before sixth year and Reg stayed home, then once I graduated we didn’t see each other. Grandfather kept my parents from disowning me. Old coot was truly neutral, plus he knew Mum and Dad were crazier than the entire concentrated crazy of the St. Mungo’s permanent residence mental ward, and that Reg and I were the only decent options for inheritance.”

“I thought Wizengamot inheritance laws stated you couldn’t legally disinherit an Heir without a felony conviction,” Harry said. “Murder, assault and battery—”

“There are ways around that,” Sirius said. Harry sat up and paid close attention. “Old, Dark magics, but—you can break the blood tie between yourself and an offspring or descendant, cut them off from the family magically. Existing members of the family, especially Heirs, will be compelled to dislike and shun the outcast, and none of the family wards will recognize them. The outcasts’ ashes couldn’t be interred with the family’s, they wouldn’t show any relations on a paternity or maternity test, and the Gringotts vaults wouldn’t open for them—all that’s older than the Wizengamot, and the Lords wouldn’t let the Wizengamot Charter touch it. If the ritual’s done, it won’t do anything legally, but the family would literally rather murder the outcast than let them be the last one and take the Wizengamot seat. It hasn’t happened in a hundred years or more, since the ritual counts as blood magic and Dark magic, both very illegal, but—it never ended well.”

“Could James…”

“Ha! Not hardly.” Sirius rolled his eyes. “It’s Dark magic, like I said, and if there’s any principle James will stand on besides Jules’ fame, it’s the avoidance of Dark magic. He wouldn’t even _know_ about the ritual. _Dumbledore_ probably doesn’t know and even then he’d never use it or tell James about it. He’s one of the worst Light zealots there is.”

Harry still made a note to be wary of that. He couldn’t one hundred percent antagonize his birth father, then. He wasn’t about to risk the Potter vaults and a Wizengamot seat.

“And one of the only others who could match his zealotry if not magical power was—is—Crouch Sr.,” Sirius said.

“Let me guess,” Harry said. “He didn’t take well to having a Death Eater son.”

“Not so much.” Sirius picked up a wrench and fiddled with it. “Er… What has Neville Longbottom told you about his parents?”

“I know,” Harry said. “I read the histories, and the old Prophet issues. The tortured-into-insanity thing?”

“Yeah. That. I heard some… interesting theories… in Azkaban. From… Katya Sparrow and Cecil Hoskyns were lovers, and friends of the Lestranges—both old mostly pure families. Hoskyns is from northern England and the Sparrows are cousins of the Runcorns and Lestranges; Katya married in from a Russian pureblood House. They… none of us was particularly coherent, but—it was a revenge thing,” he said grimly. “Rabastan Lestrange died at Alice Longbottom’s hands in a battle four months before this. They were apparently less willing to stay safely put in her manor than James and Lily—I think Dumbledore pressured your parents, actually—and Frank and Alice would leave Neville with Augusta and go out when there was a raid or something. She hit him with a fast-acting lung-corroding curse. Rodolphus Apparated him out and Frank and Alice fended off Bellatrix long enough to retreat, too.

“Barty was there when the Lestranges broke the Longbottom wards and got in after Frank and Alice, looking for revenge and information on the location of the Dark Lord.” He paused. “This is where it gets weird. Everyone I was in with insisted there was a standing order not to kill any of the Longbottoms or harm them outside voluntary battles, but the Lestranges invoked an old pre-Wizengamot law about retribution for the death of a family member, and went after a bit of payback. Not lethal, and nothing on the kid, but max three turns under the Cruciatus for each parent.”

“Probably the Dark Lord was trying not to antagonize the Selwyns when he gave the no-kill order,” Harry said. “Augusta’s one of theirs, and families can be weird about this kind of thing. Frank and Neville are both relatives.”

“Right,” Sirius said. “And if that’s all it was, I’d agree, but—I’m guessing you haven’t read much about the Cruciatus.”

“Oddly enough, they’re reluctant to give teenagers access to information on the Unforgivables,” Harry said drily. “I know a bit, I’ve done research—” _and asked some friends whose parents are not inexperienced with those three spells—_ “but not a whole lot of the theory, and very little on the side effects.”

“Tremors,” Sirius said promptly. “For hours. Usually a splitting migraine and memory issues for a day or two, depending on how powerful whoever cast it was. Grandfather made sure I never went under it often but my mum had her issues and I was a soldier in a war where the other side threw Unforgivables around like candy. I took five turns under the Cruciatus once, after fighting for three hours, in a row, before James and Dorcas showed up and fought off the two using it on me. No idea who they were; the masks made it hard to name anyone unless you got them talking. And—I’m not exactly a paragon of sanity but I was fine after a month’s rest in the Godric’s Hollow cottage.” He snorted. “Why they thought it’d be restful to lock me up with Lily Potter in her third trimester I’ve no idea. Point is, Alice and Frank were _extremely_ magically gifted. Three times under Cruciatus would’ve been hell and laid them up for a few weeks, but it _definitely_ shouldn’t have resulted in permanent insanity.”

“Why do you trust some random Death Eater over… wait, were there witnesses?” Harry said.

“Baby Neville. That’s it. And infant memories are vague at best, colored by unbridled toddler emotion, no sense of time. More or less useless in a Pensieve. All they could get out of extracting copies of his memories was that it was definitely Bella, Barty, and Rodolphus, and that the Cruciatus was used. Dumbledore showed up and the Lestranges fled, then he got Frank and Alice to St. Mungo’s.”

“So no witnesses.” Harry narrowed his eyes. “Question stands. Why do you trust Sparrow and Hoskyns over Dumbledore?”

“He threw me away for twelve years,” Sirius growled, the prison darkness creeping back into his eyes. “And I didn’t do _anything_ to justify it. I’d hardly be surprised if he dramatized a couple actual Death Eaters’ crimes to drum up public outrage and make everyone hate their entire side of the war. I _know_ I wasn’t the only one to get chucked in there with no trial or a sham trial. And Hoskyns was passed out when Sparrow told me the story—the Aurors would come down and lay the Cruciatus or Imperius on us sometimes, laugh at us screaming in pain or doing humiliating things.” His tone of voice kept Harry asking exactly what kinds of humiliating things the Aurors had forced their prisoners to do. It was probably a lot worse than making monkey sounds or dancing the cancan. “Hoskyns just did a few turns and he was unconscious, Sparrow got to talking, and the story came out in pieces. I bugged Hoskyns about it when he woke up. They had no chance to talk, and his story matched hers perfectly, and none of the others looked surprised, so unless they all worked out a cover beforehand I’m inclined to believe them.”

“That’s definitely odd,” Harry said. “I wonder if Neville knows. About Rabastan.”

“Doubtful,” Sirius said. “Based on what I’ve seen, Dumbledore spent the last twelve years using his power to pump out propaganda showing everyone on our side as heroes and everyone on the other side as despicable monsters. I… a lot of them _were_ , but not all. Definitely not Barty Junior. He was a kid caught up with the wrong people. Only eighteen. Crouch gave him a sham trial and pitched them all in Azkaban together on a life sentence. Died in 1982, just a few days after his parents came to visit. Barty Senior only came for the wife’s sake; she wanted to see her son one more time before she died; he’d never come to visit before then.”

Barty Crouch sounded like the sort of person Harry would’ve collected had history worked out differently somehow and put them in Hogwarts together. “Bit sad,” he said. “All those lives… Who might the Death Eaters have been if not for Vol—the Dark Lord?”

“They mostly wouldn’t have ended up good law-abiding citizens,” Sirius said.

Harry snickered. “ _We_ aren’t good law-abiding citizens.”

Sirius’ lips twitched, some of the darkness receding. “No, but we’re also not murderers.”

“Does it not count as murder if you kill in a war?” Harry said without thinking.

Sirius chucked a wadded-up bit of parchment at him. “I am not dealing with your philosophical Ravenclawish bullshit right now. Go back to your potioning and let me tinker in peace. I’m close to figuring out how the carburetor works. D’you want to come with me to get my motorcycle from Hagrid this week?”

“Please,” Harry said with a grin. “My summer homework’s done, I need something to entertain me.” Plus being around Harry seemed to make the gamekeeper nervous and as Harry wasn’t overly fond of Hagrid, he’d take an opportunity to go see him.

“I’ll let you know when,” Sirius said, already retreating to his engine parts.

It was good, Harry decided on his way out, that Sirius had a project. Harry’s own memories provided proof of how easy it was to slip into dark thoughts and downward spirals. Everyone had their inner demons waiting to pounce when the hands and mind were idle. Harry’s and Sirius’ were just meaner than most.

 

Harry stared a bit longingly at the castle.

“Two and a half weeks,” Sirius said with what passed for gentility from him. “It was an escape for me too.”

“Let’s go get your bike back,” Harry said.

They walked through the main gates on the road from Hogsmeade, the same road the carriages traveled every year. Ward-magic rippled over Harry’s skin and touched his own magical core, recognized him as a student of Hogwarts with no harmful intentions, and then its faint touch disappeared and he was through.

“That’s never not weird,” Sirius muttered.

Harry grinned.

The grounds smelled like grass and sunshine and summer and magic. You could just make out the Quidditch pitch across the rolling half-wild lawn. The Forbidden Forest rustled and whispered a little bit to their right; Harry kept one eye on the trees as they walked, all too aware of what Dumbledore and Hagrid kept in there. Sirius’ head turned on a swivel. He couldn’t seem to decide where to look, drinking it all in hungrily.

“I missed this place,” Sirius muttered.

Harry just nodded. He didn’t like trying to explain what Hogwarts meant to him. Explaining meant sharing his fierce affection for this place, and that was a private, precious thing.

Despite the warm Scottish summer, Hagrid’s chimney was merrily smoking away. His garden sprawled out behind the hut. Summer had left it vibrant and happy and wild; the beginnings of Halloween pumpkins lurked next to three-foot-tall stands of lettuce and overgrown silver-leafed sickleberry bushes and fireflowers spitting sparks at the sun.

“Here’s hoping he hasn’t broken it,” Sirius muttered, knocking on the door.

Fang’s explosive barks thundered, followed by Hagrid ordering him back and down. Harry arranged his face into polite and eager charm, the same expression that worked so well on all his other teachers save McGonagall.

“Who is—Ah—Sirius Black!” Hagrid’s bushy face appeared in the door, his beetle-black eyes gleaming happily. “I though’ I migh’ be seein’ you soon! And—Mr. Potter,” he added, catching sight of Harry and deflating visibly.

“Hi, Professor Hagrid,” Harry said cheerfully.

“Professor now, eh?” Sirius said, grinning first at Harry then at Hagrid. “You might’ve told me that, Harry. Congratulations, Hag—er—”

“Rubeus,” Hagrid said. “I insis’—come on in, spot o’ tea?”

“That’d be great, thanks,” Sirius said, stepping in. He seemed not to have noticed the way Hagrid’s attention lingered on Harry, who just grinned at the gamekeeper as he followed his godfather into the hut.

Hagrid bustled around, setting out jars of tea leaves and mugs. Sirius aimed his wand at each mug in turn and filled them with hot water. Harry stirred orange spice black tea into his and sipped it while Sirius and Hagrid chatted about how Sirius was doing and how Diagon Alley had been and Sirius’ new wand and Hagrid’s new teaching position. They both danced neatly around the trials and Dumbledore and James’ involvement in Sirius’ incarceration. What with the way Dumbledore had manipulated Hagrid into blind and absolute loyalty, Harry wouldn’t be surprised if Hagrid was mentally incapable of accepting Dumbledore had done anything wrong.

And all the while, Hagrid refused to look at Harry.

Harry’s teacup was cold and his grip on it rather tight by the time Sirius finally got around to asking about his bike.

“Ah, it’s jus’ round the back here,” Hagrid said, moving swiftly for the back door. “If yeh come wi’ me…”

He blundered on out the back in a hurry.

“Is he always this weird?” Sirius whispered.

“Around me,” Harry said. “Not sure why, but he’s never liked me.”

“Huh.” Sirius knocked back the rest of his tea. “Tell me more later.”

The back steps creaked under their feet on the way out.

Hagrid was already on the other side of the garden, yanking open a half-overgrown shed near the edge of the forest. “I haven’ taken it out in a while,” he yelled over his shoulder. The shed shuddered as he vanished inside.

“Looks like he’s about to knock that poor building down,” Harry said.

Sirius snorted. “As long as the bike’s not scratched.”

There was a shriek of metal on metal. Harry and Sirius winced in unison.

A set of dull, dusty handlebars inched into view from the shadows of the shed, followed by an even dustier motorbike that looked dramatically large for Sirius and a bit too small for Hagrid, who came right behind it, pushing hard. His beard and hair were absolutely full of dust.

“Here yeh are,” he said, putting down the kickstand with a triumphant grin. “I been tryin’ to keep it looking nice… Don’ get ter fly it much, though, Dumbledore’d have a fit…”

“You carried Jules and me to James and Dumbledore on this,” Harry said, his brain squeezing out a faint memory. “Didn’t you?”

“I did,” Hagrid said, looking at him and squinting. “You remember tha’, eh?”

 _Obviously._ “A bit,” Harry said.

“Huh.” Hagrid shrugged his massive shoulders. “Hear yeh been doin’ well in yer classes?”

“He has,” Sirius bragged. “Top of his year in the overall rankings.”

“No’ bad,” Hagrid said. “Jules wrote me ter say he came in abou’ seventeenth?”

“Something like that,” Harry said, unable to keep a bit of a sneer off his face. Jules could do just as well as Harry if he bothered to study instead of playing Exploding Snap or wizards’ chess or Quidditch in all his spare time. “I don’t keep track of my brother’s grades.”

“Well,” Hagrid said uncomfortably. “If yeh wan’ ter fire it up, Sirius…”

“Thanks, H—er, Rubeus,” Sirius said, running a hand over the handlebars with mingled delight and distaste. He waved his wand and most of the dust vanished. “Let’s see how she does.”

He did a quick and efficient check of the engine while Hagrid shuffled his feet and Harry waited with forced patience. He’d come along to irritate Hagrid and done that splendidly, and now it was getting old.

“I’m going to take it for a test flight,” Sirius said. “Just a quick one, around the grounds. Harry, I’ll get you in a minute—”

“I’d prefer to just head straight to London,” Harry said.

“Nice try.” Sirius swung a leg over the motorbike and opened the choke. “Some godfather I’d be if I let you get on a bike no one’s ridden in years that _flies_. Five minutes.”

Harry thought he might be able to talk Sirius out of it if he argued and played Gryffindor but-I-want-to-ride-the-flying-motorcycle, possibly with a side of subtle godson guilt-tripping, but the fact of the matter was that he _didn’t_ feel like dying if the rather neglected-looking motorcycle crashed into the Forbidden Forest or the castle, so he just nodded and let it lie.

Sirius was completely caught up in the bike, ignoring both Harry and Hagrid. He fiddled with a few things up near the handles, and with a stutter and a roar, the engine came to life.

His whoop of delight was barely audible over the noise. Impossibly, it revved _louder_ —Harry strongly suspected a melodramatic teenaged Sirius had put sound-amplification charms on the thing—and then it was hurtling forward, tearing a track in the grass, and then with a cough of smoke it jolted up into the air and zipped off into the sky.

“Impressive,” Harry said conversationally. “I bet you had a load of fun riding that thing around.”

“Uh-huh,” Hagrid said. “I did, at tha’… Er, d’you want more tea, or…”

“No, thanks,” Harry said. “I—was wondering, if you don’t mind—why are you growing fireflowers? They’re not all that useful, are they?”

Hagrid perked up a bit, though he still eyed Harry warily. “Nah, but they’re downrigh’ pretty!”

“True,” Harry said, nodding as another of the tall and vibrantly orange blooms coughed out sparks. “What about the sickleberries?”

Thanks to years of friendship with Neville and Theo, he managed to keep Hagrid talking about plants until Sirius’ bike rumbled to a halt in front of the garden again. Harry’s godfather’s hair was windswept, torn half out of its tie, and his eyes were sparkling with glee in a way Harry had seen only in old pre-war photographs.

“Runs just fine,” he said enthusiastically.  “I’ll need to make a few tweaks and tune-ups, I suppose, but that’s to be expected. I can’t thank you enough, Hagrid.”

“O’course,” Hagrid said, beaming. “I’ was my pleasure.”

Harry sauntered over to the bike, nudging its back tire skeptically with his toe. “So I just climb on the back? No helmet?”

“Don’t you trust me?” Sirius said with a wild grin. “I’ve never fallen off this thing yet.”

“Tha’s not true,” Hagrid said. “James tol’ me you ate dirt loads o’ times—”

“Not while flying it,” Sirius said, like it was obvious. “C’mon, Harry, we have to get back soon if you want to meet your friends on time.”

“Right,” Harry agreed. “Thanks for the tea, Hagrid. It’s always fun to visit.”

“Er—righ’,” Hagrid said. “Yeh as well, Harry—Sirius—”

And with one last wave, Sirius gunned the engine, and he and Harry shot into the air.

It was like flying a broom, only—faster and more terrifying and more _fun_. The wind roared almost as loud as the engine and the air took the moisture from Harry’s eyes and the warmth from his cheeks and the order from his hair and the worry from his thoughts. He screamed in delight and the wind stole that, too, ripping the sound away and scattering it behind them, and a few seconds later the shards of Sirius’ laughter spun away on its heels.

Green fields and endless forests and towns and then neighborhoods and rivers and occasionally a city and then the big sprawling suburbs of London were arrayed under the airborne wheels, and Sirius was doing something that shut off the sound and turned them invisible, and they were landing sneakily in the Grimmauld Place square. Sirius moved, probably aiming his wand, and the rolling door on the renovated front of 11 Grimmauld Place rumbled up into the ceiling, and they drove inside, and the door closed behind them.

The bike and its riders became visible again as Sirius shut it off. 

“Merlin,” Harry said when he could speak again, climbing stiffly and happily off the bike. “That was… can we do it again soon?”

Sirius laughed. Loud and full and free. “Oh, definitely. Go on upstairs, I’m sure your friends are here and I need to check this thing over.”

“Seems to be running fine,” Harry said.

“Tune-ups never hurt.” Sirius’ grin got wicked. “And I might be able to make it faster.”

“By all means,” Harry said, trying to pat his hair down as he left the shop.

 

“—never work,” Hermione snapped. “You need to rearrange the runes _this_ way, and the arithmetic calculations—”

“You haven’t even _finished_ your calculations,” Daphne shot right back. “At _best_ they’d suggest a fourth form runic array instead of third, you’re proposing a jump to the _eleventh_ form—”

“She has a point, Daph,” Theo interrupted. He jabbed a finger at one of the numerous books and rolls of parchment spread out over the kitchen table. “This chapter makes it sound like forms nine through seventeen have to do with matter-linking spells, and if you cross reference with the book on the Protean Charm theory—”

Harry cleared his throat.

“Oh, hey, Harry,” Justin said, looking up from the table with an easy grin. Vacation had been good for him; his curly hair shone and his skin was tanned. “Didn’t see you.”

“I noticed,” Harry said drily, sliding into a seat next to Daphne. She favored him with a thin smile and he returned it as he always did. With Daphne, he never had to moderate his facial expressions to keep from being too callous or cold. “I admit I was hoping to _help_ with this project.”

Hermione blushed. “Theo already had the books out when I came through the Floo,” she said. “So I asked a question…”

“And then it went from there,” Justin finished.

“I’ve no idea how you’re not in Ravenclaw,” Daphne said.

Hermione crossed her arms. “I consider principles more valuable than knowledge in and of itself.”

“We know,” Theo said. “It took you months to get over the house-elf thing, remember?”

“I still think it’s a flawed system,” Hermione said. “It’s far too easy for your crew of old families to simply abuse your elves and take advantage of the fact that they rely on your magic. There needs to be more legislation to—”

“Yes, we know,” Harry said. They’d all heard the house-elf speech before. Multiple times. Along with the versions for goblins, centaurs, werewolves, merpeople, and even _vampires_. He’d admire Hermione’s relentless fair-mindedness if it wasn’t so bloody tiresome. If she got through school without anyone murdering her, she could do some real good in the Ministry.

That was, if she could surmount the Muggle-born prejudice. Harry frowned slightly. He’d finally noticed this summer, now that he, through Sirius, was taking more of an interest in Ministry affairs, that very few high-level Ministry people were Muggle-born. The only current Muggle-born department head was Dirk Cresswell and everyone knew Head of Goblin Liaison Department was essentially a death sentence. He’d have to talk to Sirius about that, maybe his other friends. Lucius Malfoy and Calvis Nott’s connections would be instrumental to help Hermione after graduation. And Justin if he went into the Ministry, which he probably would because for some unfathomable reason no one had realized that the government employing nearly seventy percent of Britain’s magical population was a terrible and unsustainable system.

“So we know you wanted to talk to us about Protean Charms and similar matter-linking spells,” Justin said. “What for?”

“Well, first off, I wanted you four because you’re best with runes and arithmancy out of our friends,” Harry said. “And the project I’ve got in mind for the rest of the summer will need a lot of both. We’re essentially going to create a new spell.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Hermione said. “And illegal? The Ministry…”

Theo laughed at her. “’Mione, we’ve been dueling with and practicing spells years above our level since we were _eleven_. You should know; you’ve been with us.” Only for the tamer sessions where they stuck to legal magic, but still, he had a point. “It’s not like experimental charms where you blow things up half the time.”

“Besides, the Ministry stranglehold on developmental spells and magical research has throttled advancement for centuries,” Daphne said derisively. “We’d be way ahead where we are now otherwise. They only do it because they’re scared and overcontrolling, not because it’s actually as dangerous as they say.”

“Why does everyone think that, then?” Justin said.

Theo opened his mouth.

“Ohhh. Propaganda,” Justin said, satisfied.

Theo and Daphne raised eyebrows, but Hermione nodded slowly. “Makes sense.”

“Why would you know so much about propaganda?” Daphne said.

Justin actually laughed at her. Daphne’s eyes visibly narrowed. She was one of the prickliest people Harry knew. He nudged her ankle under the table to remind her to keep a lid on it. “Wizards aren’t the only ones to figure out how to lie to people,” he said. “Plenty of Muggle despots have used propaganda really effectively. Castro, Stalin, Hitler, Churchill, Lincoln, going back centuries.”

“History buff?” Hermione said, watching him with interest.

Justin grinned. “I steal my older brother’s school books and read them in the summers. I can mail them to you if you like, he’d never notice.”

Hermione’s eyes turned steely. It was eerily reminiscent of Professor McGonagall. “I’d love that. It’s best I start now so I’m not doing too much Muggle catch-up during OWLs.”

“Only you would think about OWLs before fourth year even starts,” Daphne sighed.

Harry laid his hands flat on the table. _“Anyway_ , now that we’ve got the objections to technically breaking the law out of the way—” and thank Merlin Hermione didn’t give two shits for rules she decided were stupid— “my idea is a network of linked notebooks we can use to write each other and not have to rely on letters and owl post.”

“Brilliant,” Justin said. “Like email?”

Theo and Daphne looked confused. “A Muggle technology that can instantly send information anywhere in the world connected to a network,” Harry explained.

Daphne looked grudgingly impressed. “That’s… fairly clever, actually.”

“Muggles aren’t stupid,” Justin said.

“Just violent and base,” Theo said.

“They are _not_ ,” Hermione snapped. Harry suppressed delight that she had _finally_ quit using ‘we’ when referring to Muggles.

“Loads more Muggles commit violent, depraved crimes than wizards or witches,” Harry said evenly. Hermione and Justin responded best to facts. “It’s a factor of population size. With many more Muggles than witches or wizards, it’s more likely for sadists, thugs, and idiots to crop up, just as Muggles have had a higher number of “geniuses” turn out of their ranks. Wizards almost never abandon or kill children or fall prey to murderous religious fervor, and we _definitely_ don’t go out for genocide.”

“With the notable exception of You-Know-Who,” Hermione fired right back.

Harry shrugged. She had a point, but— “One out of centuries, then.  Even Grindelwald’s ideology never called for just killing Muggles. How many Muggle despots have killed hundreds of thousands or even millions in this century alone?”

She and Justin exchanged an uncertain glance. “Blood purity, then,” Justin said. “It’s not like wizards are immune to racism. Look at Malfoy.”

“Malfoy’s a bigot,” Daphne said dismissively. “We just don’t like the idea of Muggles knowing about us and Muggle-borns pose a risk to that.”

“It used to be they’d be blood adopted into pureblood families and either the baby was swapped with a Muggle orphan and the parents’ memories altered, or just taken,” Theo said, with the fiery eyes and enigmatic posture that he got whenever there was a debate to be had. “Then the Ministry made blood adoptions illegal when they banned all blood rituals in 1803, and ever since then, fear of Muggle-borns’ divided loyalties has been slowly morphing into the kind of senseless bigotry our dear friend Malfoy displays.” 

“Why don’t we learn this?” Justin demanded. “And I don’t know about being taken from my family, Theo, they’re totally fine with me being a wizard—”

“Mine weren’t,” Harry said icily. He wasn’t even sure what side he was arguing for anymore, but he knew for _sure_ that there was justifiable worry about Muggles discovering wizards. He knew he couldn’t be the only magical child to grow up in a horrible situation never knowing why or what was different about them. “My aunt and uncle and cousin abused me for my entire childhood because I was a _freak_ and they needed to _stomp it out of me_. I know they’re horrible people and by no means representative of the Muggle population, but that doesn’t mean it’s an uncommon thing. Muggles will ostracize and abuse their _own_ children as ‘possessed’ or some nonsense let alone magical kids. Ninety-two percent of magical children from abusive homes are Muggle-borns or grew up with one Muggle parent. Hermione, can you honestly say it hasn’t caused you problems with your parents?”

Hermione opened her mouth, and then very slowly closed it again, and shook her head.

“I have some books on blood adoption and blood rituals in my family library I can loan you,” Theo said. “If you’d like to do research.”

Hermione and Justin shared a glance.

“I’ve been doing some of my own,” Harry added. “It’s not… not horrible or, I dunno, evil magic. Just different. Powerful.”

“Magic is magic,” Hermione said. “I’d like to borrow some of those books, Theo.”

“Frankly, it doesn’t interest me all that much,” Justin said. “I’ll take your word for it. Harry—do you know it’s that common?”

“Ask around, Justin. I’m sure our Muggle-born peers wouldn’t talk to _me_ , being a Slytherin and a Parselmouth,” Harry said bitterly, “but a Muggle-born Hufflepuff everyone likes? I’d love to know how many you get a weird vibe from if you ask whether having magic has given them problems with their families, either when they were kids or now that they’re at school. The statistic was published in an independent newspaper in 1983, a year before said newspaper went out of business. Along with all the other news sources except for the Prophet.”

Justin nodded slowly. “I will. Now, what’s this you were saying about connected notebooks? Show us how that would work.”

Daphne almost fought the change of subject, but Harry kicked her again and let Justin redirect them without complaint. Some topics were too heavy to cover all at once and his friend probably just wanted some time to process.

Now if only he could talk Vector—or Babbling, or both—into getting some extra credit points when they finished this project.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n 1: I got the idea for the drunk-deer-James-being-chased-by-not-as-drunk-Sirius from a Tumblr post I saw on Pinterest. I can’t find the post now, but it’s not my original idea


	7. Manners and Malfoys

Harry could barely keep his composure. Quidditch was one of his favorite parts of the wizarding world and he’d thought it was a prank at first when Sirius presented him with tickets to the Top Box two days before the match. Even knowing he’d be sitting there with the Weasleys thanks to Fred and George’s inability to keep secrets when they were excited couldn’t make him less eager to attend. The best part was that they wouldn’t even need to track down a tent; their premium tickets allowed them to arrive the day of the match and they could leave the post-match festivities whenever they felt like it.

“Harry!” Sirius bellowed from downstairs. “Hurry up!”

Harry didn’t even flinch anymore when Sirius yelled his name, not like he used to. Slowly, the grip the Dursleys had on him was weakening, and he loved it. “Coming!” he hollered back, dragging one of his nicest robes over his head. It was a deep wine-colored violet, and fitted, the kind that was designed to be worn with only a light cotton undershirt and boxers underneath, which helped immensely with the temperature. It was easy to get too warm when the standard clothing for men involved long robes and long sleeves and high collars. He aimed his wand at his dragonhide boots and started casting hair charms while they laced themselves.

“We have to go, the Portkey leaves in three minutes!”

“I’ll be there!” Harry grabbed his bag, which contained two books, a spare robe, a battery-powered flashlight, a book of matches, a metal bottle charmed to purify the water in it, and two days of food—the need to be prepared for everything from boredom to being wandless on the run was one Dursley habit that, like waking up early, he couldn’t seem to break. Not that it mattered. Those he firmly considered good and useful habits even if he hated the people who’d forced him to develop them in the first place.

He ran down the stairs, waving goodbye to Kreacher when the elf peered at him from the fourth floor, and dashed into the kitchen. “Here,” he said.

Sirius turned around. “Oh, thank Merlin, come on.”

They speed-walked down the hall and out the front door. Grimmauld Place looked typically dreary even though Harry had been going out under a Notice-Me-Not at night sometimes and vanishing the piles of garbage. Sirius dragged him across the street and into a narrow alleyway; they squeezed past disgusting walls until they were out of sight of the main square and then Sirius grabbed Harry’s hand and Disapparated.

Harry hadn’t traveled by side-along-Apparation much and the uncomfortable squeezing sensation still caught him a bit off guard. He held his breath—

—and then they were stepping forward in the back lot of the Leaky Cauldron, and Sirius was letting go of him, and there was a group of three other people right there also waiting for the Portkey.

Harry wanted to groan. Of _course_ the Malfoys would also have Top Box tickets that let them arrive at the last minute. The three of them were dressed in robes of impeccable condition and fashion, matching blond hair styled and perfectly in place. Lucius Malfoy was holding his heavy cane, the one that most likely contained a backup wand, and sneering around like he couldn’t believe he had to set foot in this slightly dingy rear courtyard.

“Lord Malfoy,” Sirius said in an unmistakably chilly voice. “Lady Malfoy.”

“Do call me Narcissa,” Lady Malfoy said, smiling at Sirius with what _looked_ like sincere goodwill. “We are cousins, after all.”

“Er,” Sirius said. “I—suppose. Call me Sirius, then.”

Lady Narcissa’s smile widened slightly.

 _That was unexpected._ Harry nodded a polite greeting to the younger Malfoy.

“Lord Black,” Lord Malfoy said. “Heir Potter. Will we be seeing you in the Top Box, then?”

Harry didn’t believe Fudge hadn’t told Malfoy exactly who else would be sitting with them, but he smiled politely as Sirius nodded and replied, “Yes, I was able to get some last-minute tickets as a gift for Harry.”

“Excellent,” Lord Malfoy said. “I’m sure Draco will be pleased to sit with one of his House mates.”

Harry met his fellow Slytherin’s eyes and saw, to his shock (which he kept hidden) that Malfoy actually looked uncertain. Huh. Seemed Harry had intimidated him more the previous year than he’d thought. Much of the childish petulance was gone from Malfoy’s expression, though, so Harry grinned at him. “I am, for sure. Having Ronald Weasley and Dean Thomas there was going to be horrid.”

Lady Narcissa sniffed. “Why they let that lot into the Top Box I’ve not the faintest clue.”

“The Portkey’s about to leave,” Sirius warned with what Harry considered admirable diplomacy, given that he probably wouldn’t react well to the Malfoys going off about blood traitors (the Weasleys) and Mudbloods (Dean).

The five of them gathered around the plain polished fist-sized rock waiting on a table and reached out, laying one finger on it each.

Seconds later, Harry felt a powerful jerk, as if someone had hooked his navel and yanked him forward. The world dissolved into a nauseating spin, worse than Floo travel and Apparition put to together. He slammed his eyes shut and kept them that way, fighting his stomach to keep it from ejecting its contents across all their faces—wouldn’t _that_ be a great impression to make on Lord and Lady Malfoy—

His feet slammed into the ground and he staggered, only years of Harry Hunting and Quidditch reflexes keeping him upright. Malfoy, to his immense satisfaction, didn’t quite manage it; he ended up down on one knee and even paler than usual. All three adults somehow turned the landing into a graceful one.

“Will you be setting up a tent, Sirius?” Lady Narcissa said.

Harry eyed the Malfoys as he settled his stomach and went to stand at Sirius’ side. He was working overtime to keep from revealing exactly how much they unnerved him. Lord Malfoy, former Death Eater; his wife, a Black and Sirius’ cousin—by all rights they should be refusing to speak to Harry and Sirius yet here they were being _civil_.

“No,” Sirius said. “I didn’t want to have to deal with taking it down—rather just be able to leave when we feel like it.”

Lord Malfoy exchanged a glance with his wife filled with the kind of communication that only comes with years of working as a very close team and arched one eyebrow. Shrugging, apparently, was beneath him. “We sent our house-elves ahead to set up ours. If you wish to escape the chaos likely to follow the match, you’re welcome to drop by for tea.”

Harry hung on to his polite public mask through sheer force of will and resisted the urge to check if his ears were working right.

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” said Sirius. Harry could feel the tension radiating off him in waves and wished the Malfoys’ eyes weren’t so sharp. There was no chance to offer Sirius any kind of support without them noticing.

Narcissa smiled like a very mannerly shark. “We wouldn’t dream of leaving my cousin and his ward with no retreat from the masses,” she said, waving a delicate hand to encompass the raucous field of tents and people that stretched away from them in every direction. Harry’s eyes already hurt from all the color and motion and he had to admit it might be nice to have somewhere to go if he needed to breathe.

This was the _Malfoys_. And unlike Lord Nott, Harry didn’t have a friendship with their son to smooth the way between them. They certainly had at least one ulterior motive, and probably more. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t take advantage of their offer, and dodge whatever they wanted in return.

He glanced up at Sirius, very briefly, and winked his left eye, the one out of the Malfoys’ sight.

“We appreciate the offer,” Sirius said, managing to look at least halfway honest. You’d really think such an accomplished prankster would be able to lie better. Then again, maybe he was only good at faking innocence. “For now, I think we’d like to look around a bit. It’s been some years since I was able to—participate in our society.”

“Of course,” Lord Malfoy said. “Dreadful thing. I argued for harsher punishments for both Lord Potter and Albus, but I was overridden.”

Sirius’ lips thinned. “I wouldn’t think to question the judgment of the Wizengamot,” he ground out, a pat answer Harry had actually caught him rehearsing the other day.

Lord Malfoy smiled thinly. “Of course not, just as I accept our decision with… good grace.”

Harry watched the verbal dancing with fascination.

“May I go with them, Mother?” Malfoy said suddenly. “You and Father don’t like crowds, but I want to do a bit of sightseeing…”

 _Well,_ he’s _gotten more diplomatic._ Harry kicked his Occlumency into gear and studied his own reactions as if through a pane of glass: surprise, suspicion, distaste, but no strong aversion. Logically, it made sense to try and smooth things over with Malfoy; they’d be sharing a dorm for four more years, after all.

“Having another teenager along might be nice,” he admitted with a rueful grin, turning up his charm.

Lady Narcissa glanced at her son, then her husband. “I don’t see why not… Sirius, you do not mind the added strain?”

This was either giving Sirius an out or delicately asking whether he was mentally stable enough to take responsibility for her son. Or both. Harry’s reluctant admiration for the Malfoys’ wiliness, born in second year over Lucius Malfoy’s maneuvering to weaken Dumbledore’s position at school, grew again.

“I… don’t mind at all,” Sirius said.

“Excellent,” Lord Malfoy said. “I entrust my son to your care, then. Draco, we shall meet in the Top Box, the match starts in an hour and a half. Don’t be late.”

“Thank you,” Malfoy said, and it was one of the first and only times Harry had seen him act his age, smiling with unreserved excitement.

Both parents looked at him with undeniable fondness in their eyes. “Behave, Draco,” Lady Narcissa warned, and then they were gone, cutting a direct and elegant path through the crowds.

Harry and Malfoy eyed each other for a few seconds while Sirius watched.

“So,” Malfoy said. “Who d’you think’s going to win?”

“Weasley twins think Ireland will win but Krum will catch the Snitch,” Harry said.

“No way,” Malfoy scoffed. “Ireland’s Chasers aren’t _that_ good—”

“But Bulgaria’s might be that _bad_ ,” Harry argued.

And just like that, they were kids—two teenage boys who loved a sport. Sirius grinned and started asking questions about the various players, and Malfoy and Harry took turns answering him while going off on tangents about different tactics and Quidditch plays, and before Harry knew it they’d been walking around for an hour and all three of them had bought a pair of Omnioculars and it was time to go take their seats.

“This way,” Sirius said, eyeing a map posted along the causeway, “we have to go through those woods there…”

“I still can’t believe the Irish tents,” Malfoy said. “Covered in _grass.”_

“Not as bad as the Bulgarians,” Harry argued. “I’d be mortified if I were Krum, having everyone act like I was the only player who mattered.”

“But the fame!” Malfoy argued.

Sirius snorted. “You’re on the team with Harry, right? How would your teammates react if only you mattered to the fans?”

“Better, how’d you like it if our House carried ‘round posters with my face on them and ignored the rest of you lot?” Harry said with a smirk.

Malfoy scowled. “Point.”

They followed a crowd of people laughing and talking in dozens of languages, dressed in a mix of wizarding styles from around the world and horrendous imitations of Muggle clothing. Possibly the most amusing part of this to Harry was watching wizards and witches try to pretend to be Muggles whenever one of the campsite managers was around.

“Harry!”

Harry turned around and grinned. He’d known Neville and his gran were bringing Hermione and Justin, but he hadn’t expected to be able to track them down. The three hurried and caught up with him and Sirius and Malfoy, falling in on the way down the lantern-lined path through the woods. “I’ve been looking for you all afternoon, how long have you been here?” Harry said.

“Since yesterday,” Hermione said, stopping short of him thankfully without a hug.

“Lord Black,” Justin said with a respectful half-bow in Sirius’ direction. “And Heir Malfoy, well met.”

For the first time, Malfoy looked nervous. “Yes, well met… Finch-Fletchley, is it? And Heir Longbottom, a pleasure.”

“Mhm,” Neville said with barely a glance in Malfoy’s direction. It was a deliberate snub and Harry wanted to applaud his friend. Neville was _really_ growing confidence along with his wandwork abilities. “Lord Black, good to see you again.”

“All of you call me Sirius, Lord Black sounds like my grandfather and I do _not_ have a beard,” Sirius said. “Oh—Harry, I’ve just seen Robin Mockridge, friend of Vanessa’s—you don’t mind—”

“Nope,” Harry said, smirking. Maybe Sirius would have a date later. “See you in the box?”

“Right,” Sirius said, grinning back, and then he jogged ahead, calling out to a copper-skinned witch who greeted him with a brilliant smile.

Malfoy shifted very awkwardly.

“Bit surprised to see you here,” Neville said to him.

Harry shrugged. “Malfoys had the same Portkey as us.”

“My parents wanted to wait in our tent, but I preferred to sightsee,” Malfoy said, raising most of the shields he’d dropped in the last hour. “Lord Black graciously agreed to let me accompany them.”

“Drop the formality already,” Justin said impatiently.

Malfoy made a slight face.

“We’re _fourteen_ and at a sporting event, who cares!” Neville said. “Harry, did you see the Omnioculars they were selling?”

“Bought a pair,” Harry said happily, holding his up. “I can’t wait to try these out. Think they’ll work at school matches?”

“They _should_ , for how much we paid,” Justin said.

“Have you seen the Weasleys yet?” Harry asked them.

“Yeah, they have a tent over that way,” Neville said, waving vaguely. “Ron boasted that they’re sitting in the Top Box. Trying to one-up us.”

“That was until I reminded him he’d be sitting with you,” Hermione said with a satisfied smile. Malfoy squinted around Harry at her, something like discomfort on his face. It wasn’t the usual _ew it’s a Mudblood_ elitist snobbery, though; there was something distinctly ‘awkward teenager’ about the hunch of his shoulders and the way the Malfoy heir shoved his hands in his pockets, uncharacteristically defensive and unsure.

“The twins are excited to see you,” Justin said. “They said to tell you they’re trialing one of their products?”

“Really,” Harry said, raising an eyebrow. He’d been in contact with them both all summer, and they had a lot of new products in the pipeline. “Wonder which one.”

“Products?” Malfoy said dubiously.

Harry smirked. “If they offer you anything to eat, don’t take it. And keep an eye on your wand.” He’d much rather see Ronald or Percy humiliated at the moment than Malfoy, and the twins were especially excited about their trick wands. He made sure his own was securely up his holster.

“Er… thanks,” Malfoy said hesitantly.

“What’s your take on the match?” Justin said eagerly.

“Krum’s got the best chance as Seeker,” Malfoy said. “Potter and I are at odds about whose Chasers will be better, though.”

“Ireland,” Neville said. “Have you _seen_ them play?”

“Krum looks very grouchy on all those posters,” Hermione said, pointing at one on a tree off to one side. Several teenaged American witches were giggling at it as they walked by. “I wonder why they used that picture.”

“Don’t you not like Quidditch?” Harry said.

Hermione giggled. _Giggled._ She _must_ have been spending time with Pansy and Daphne this summer. “Well, no, I just don’t particularly _care_ about it. But this is dreadfully exciting, isn’t it?”

“Muggle-borns,” Malfoy hissed just loud enough to hear.

“It’s not my fault I’ve never had the opportunity to come to an event like this,” Hermione said.

Malfoy, to Harry’s eternal shock, shrugged and conceded the point.

Hermione shot him a startled glance. Justin and Neville were equally surprised. Harry half-shrugged while the blond wasn’t looking. Probably Malfoy, like Harry, was avoiding picking a fight with someone he’d be sharing a dorm with for four years—and someone who’d already bested him magically.

Just then, the five of them walked out of the woods, and Harry’s eyes widened.

The stadium was massive, and gorgeous. Immense gold walls surrounded the pitch, bit enough to fit Hogwarts.

“Seats a hundred thousand,” Justin said, grinning. “I did some reading beforehand—Muggle Repelling Charms all _over_ it.”

“Couldn’t very well have them wandering up and asking what this all is for,” Hermione said, eyeing the stadium with the research eagerness in her eyes. “I wonder how much labor that took…”

“Ministry task force of five hundred has been working on it all year,” Malfoy said. “Father’s on the budget committee.”

Neville whistled.

“Speak of the lethifold…” Justin muttered.

Harry followed his gaze. “Lord Malfoy,” he said politely. “Lady Malfoy.”

“Heir Potter,” Lady Malfoy said, smiling. “Draco, introduce us to your friends, wouldn’t you?”

Harry latched onto Hermione’s elbow to keep her from slipping away. She’d probably yell at him for it later, but he needed to test…

“You’ve met Heir Potter,” Malfoy said. “This is Neville, Heir of House Longbottom; Justin Finch-Fletchley, and Hermione Granger.”

“Granger,” Lady Malfoy said thoughtfully. Hermione stiffened almost imperceptibly. Harry braced himself for what he’d heard from multiple other purebloods upon meeting Hermione— _any relation to the Dagworth-Grangers?_

“I’ve seen your name at the top of your class standings for three years now,” Lady Malfoy said. “Admirable performance.”

Hermione blinked. Harry agreed.

“Thank you, Lady Malfoy,” she said, clearly falling back on the manners the Greengrasses drummed into her.

Lady Malfoy sent another of those unreadable looks with her husband. “We can always recognize _true_ talent,” she said demurely.

Lord Malfoy smiled thinly at them. “It’s a pleasure to meet our son’s classmates,” he said. “Hadrian, accompany us to the Top Box?”

First name. That was an indication... of something other than outright hostility here. Harry smiled with as much charm as he could muster. “Certainly, Lord Malfoy. Hermione, Neville, Justin, I’ll find you later, yeah?”

“Have fun,” Neville said with a look towards the Malfoys that passed for subtlety from a Gryffindor.

“I’m pretty sure the twins are going to be testing something on Ronald,” Harry said with a smirk. “So yes, I will.”

Justin laughed and Hermione grinned. “Our entrance is down there,” Justin said, pointing. “Neville’s gran got good seats. Not as good as the Top Box, though.”

“Sirius spoils me,” Harry sighed with mock weariness.

“See you,” Hermione said, and then they withdrew into the crowd.

Harry fell in with the Malfoys climbing one set of stairs after another. His legs had started to burn a bit when Lady Narcissa requested that they pause for a moment and Harry was grateful for years of Quidditch workouts.

“Potter,” Malfoy said. “Here, look—”

Harry glanced once at the Malfoy parents, speaking in soft voices on the landing of the polished stairs, and headed over to Malfoy.

He’d found a landing where someone forgot to finish the paneling, and there was a narrow view of the pitch. Light lanced in and turned Malfoy’s hair from pale blond to gold. “Check it out,” he said, watching Harry with something like suspicion and something like eagerness.

Harry kept half his awareness on Malfoy in case this was a trick as he edged over and peered out the narrow gap. “Merlin,” he breathed, _almost_ forgetting to be wary as he took in the view. It was only a thin gap and he couldn’t see much but the pitch was bright green and a gold light seemed to suffuse everything. Harry could see only a sliver of the ascending levels of seats on the other side of the stadium but the people in them were practically vibrating with excitement. It was contagious. Harry started to grin.

“Merlin is right,” Malfoy said.

“View’ll be even better from the top box,” Harry said with his best attempt at a conspiratorial grin. He didn’t have to like Malfoy to want to cultivate him.

Malfoy smirked back, the expression natural on his pointed face. “Only the best for the Malfoys. And the Blacks, I suppose. Did you know your new godfather’s inherited the vaults of one of the richest wizarding families in Britain?”

“I… didn’t,” Harry said. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters,” Malfoy said. “Money always matters.”

“There’s things money can’t buy,” Harry said. “Other than Quidditch tickets, anyway.”

“Like what?” Malfoy sneered.

Harry raised an eyebrow and injected as much disdain as he could summon into his expression. “How much do you really trust those goons of yours? Or Bulstrode?”

Malfoy scowled, which Harry knew meant he had no comeback, so he just smirked at the other Slytherin and sauntered past him to Lord and Lady Malfoy.

“Ready?” Lord Malfoy said.

Harry smiled brilliantly. “Definitely, Lord Malfoy.”

Malfoy the younger rejoined them, not quite able to hide his scowl.

“Is everything all right, Dragon?” Lady Narcissa said.

“Yes, Mother.”

Harry bit back a smirk.

Malfoy didn’t look at him directly again for the rest of the climb to the Top Box.

Harry walked in half a step behind the Malfoys and found himself in a balcony with twenty or so purple-and-gilt padded chairs, already half-filled.

“Ah! Minister Fudge,” Lord Malfoy said, stepping forward with a smile and shaking Cornelius Fudge’s hand. Harry had met the minister at Potter Manor, so when Fudge stepped forward with a strained smile, Harry didn’t need to be introduced.

“Heir Potter,” Fudge said. “A pleasure, a pleasure… Here with, er, Lord Black, are you?”

“I am,” Harry said with a smile that probably only the Malfoys would be able to tell was insincere, which he intended. There was no _way_ a man like Lucius Malfoy actually _liked_ the portly, obnoxiously dressed, and dithering Minister of Magic. “I do appreciate your generosity in opening the Top Box tickets to those of us who aren’t Ministry employees.”

“Yes, well,” Fudge said, shifting his weight. “It, er, seemed a good idea… Lucius, if you would…”

Harry managed to slip away while Fudge introduced the Malfoys to the Bulgarian Minister of Magic, snickering while Fudge loudly mimed and complained that his counterpart didn’t know English. This seemed exceedingly doubtful. Harry couldn’t imagine the magical leader of one of the most powerful European Ministries _not_ speaking at least the basics of the languages they’d have to deal with most often.

Malfoy kept right on ignoring Harry and stuck by his father’s side. Harry was perfectly fine with this; he moved down into the front row of seats, intending to save one for Sirius—

“Er,” he said, glancing around. “Whose… whose elf are you?”

The elf in question peered up at him through fingers held as if to shade her eyes from a nonexistent sun. The pitch, as Harry’d seen it from the spot Malfoy found below, was suffused with golden light, but the sun was already below the edge of the stadium and couldn’t be causing the elf any problems. “Winky is Master Crouch’s elf, sir,” she squeaked.

“Ah,” Harry said. Bartemius Crouch—described as a zealot by Sirius and a hopeless stick-in-the-mud by George and Fred, who was Head of International Magical Cooperation and also Percy’s boss. He frowned at the trembling, unhappy elf. If the man treated his house-elves this way Harry wasn’t sure he liked him. You ought to be polite to those who worked for you. Even if they were magically bound into service. It was the basis of centuries of wizard-elf relations.

Winky went back to sitting with her hands clamped over her eyes, glancing nervously about. She was sitting in the second to last seat of the second row, which sat a bit higher than the front so no one’s view would be obscured.

Harry glanced around; the Malfoys were still talking to the Ministers and no one else had gotten here yet. Typical. He sat down smartly two seats to the elf’s left—he always preferred to not have his back to people in group settings like this; the back row was better—and leaned forward on the seat in front of him, studying the pitch with delight.

From up here, the green lawn looked like velvet, soft and featureless. The Top Box was at the exact center of the pitch and the highest level of the stadium. At each end of the stadium, to the right and left, three goal hoops soared fifty feet into the air, their bronze rings gleaming over columns of magically reinforced stone. A massive board directly across from Harry flashed bright colors at the audience as advertisements scrawled across its surface for Bluebottle family brooms and Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans.

By Merlin, he wanted his Firebolt.

Harry’s thoughts turned back to the house-elf when she squeaked in fear over a sudden explosion of fireworks from the Bulgarian supporters to their right. Harry considered her without bothering to hide his calculation. The elf wasn’t paying him the slightest bit of attention. Odd that her master had sent her ahead… Not for the first time, Harry wondered why the Wizengamot had voted to strip Crouch of his family seat. They weren’t an Ancient and Noble House or even just a Noble one, but the Crouches were wealthy and old and they _did_ have an inherited seat—up until nine months after Voldemort disappeared. 

“Does Mr. Crouch commonly purchase seats for his house-elf?” Harry said.

Winky peeked at him again. “Winky is saving Master Crouch a seat, sir.”

“Is he afraid someone will lift his ticket?” Harry said drily. “Or perhaps that they accidentally sold more tickets than they have seats in here?”

“Master Crouch is being very particular about his place, sir,” Winky said, looking at the empty seat to her right again. “He will be wanting these seats.”

“Is anyone coming with him?” Harry pressed. The whole thing seemed really strange. Buying an extra seat just so he could send his house-elf ahead to save them, and then keep her there when he could just send Winky back home? It made _no_ sense.

Winky flinched. “Master Crouch is not telling Winky everything, sir.”

He wouldn’t be getting anything more out of the elf, then. Harry surveyed the odd tableau to his right for a few more seconds, and then a commotion at the entrance to the Top Box drew his attention.

“Ministers,” Sirius said coldly. “Lord Malfoy, er—Narcissa.”

“Welcome, Lord Black,” Fudge said with a _definitely_ strained smile.

Sirius nodded hurriedly and pushed past Fudge.

“Antagonizing the Minister of Magic?” Harry said in a low voice as Sirius came and took the empty seat between him and Winky.

“Shut up,” Sirius said irritably. “You know I hate the man, he’s an idiot.”

“Yeah, but he’s the _Minister_ ,” Harry said. “It’d be useful to have him like you.”

Sirius snorted. “As if he’d ever like me. I’m a walking PR disaster and there’s nothing he loves quite so much as his image.”

“You’d think he’d hire a personal fashion manager if he cared _that_ much about image,” Harry said, jerking his head in Fudge’s direction. “Purple and orange pinstripes, honestly, and that waistcoat’s positively tacky. It’s like he’s trying to imitate Dumbledore’s horrid style but hasn’t got the balls to really do it. Or the presence to pull it off.”

Sirius laughed, which was what Harry had intended. When one of his dark moods hit, Sirius could mope for days, and it was best to head him off before he got too far into them. Over the summer, Harry had gotten good at noticing those mood swings coming and averting them, and Sirius had gotten good at showing up within minutes when Harry woke up with a nightmare. They worked well with each other’s issues.

“Harry!”

He looked up and grinned at two of his closer friends. “Fred, George,” Harry said. “Get here all right?”

“It’s bloody fantastic,” George said enthusiastically, slouching into a seat next to Harry. Fred sprawled out on the one on George’s other side in a pale, freckled, ginger version of Blaise’s insouciance. “We bet Ludo Bagman a load of money that Ireland’ll win but Krum will get the Snitch—”

“How much did you—oh, hell, I’m supposed to be responsible, aren’t I?” Sirius said, suddenly looking genuinely horrified. “And tell you gambling’s wrong and all that—”

“We’ll tell Mum you told us off,” Fred assured him, smirking. “We’d ignore you even if you tried, so really it makes no difference.”

“Oh thank Merlin,” Sirius said. “Because that’s brilliant and probably no one would expect it.”

Both twins laughed.

Harry’s good mood dimmed slightly when Ronald Weasley, Dean Thomas, and Jules Potter filed into the far right seats of the front row. Ronald scowled at Harry and then at the twins.

“Jules,” Harry said cordially.

Jules smiled tightly. “Harry.” He sat down between his friends, who immediately leaned in and started talking.

Harry eyed the three boys’ wands, all sticking out of the pockets of their robes and all too easy to grab. “George,” he said in a low voice. “Got any of those trick wands on you?”

The twins followed Harry’s gaze and immediately looked gleeful. “Think you can get him, Harry?” Fred said, surreptitiously pulling a fake wand out of his robes and passing it to George, who handed it off to Harry.

“Cover me,” Harry said, nodding at the adults still talking over to their left. Wouldn’t do for Fudge or one of the Malfoys swap out Ronald’s wand.

George immediately pretended to drop something while Fred hovered over him, berating him while George sniped back. It was the perfect diversion. Harry leaned over; Sirius’ knees were just a bit in the way—

Sirius shifted his weight over to the right. Harry glanced up: his godfather was leaning back and whistling, the picture of innocence, eyes on the sky. “Do be careful down there,” Sirius said in a bored but quiet voice. None of the boys in the front row looked around. “Wouldn’t want you to trip while I’m not watching.”

Smirking, Harry leaned forward and swapped the wands with a light touch honed during years of swiping food and pocket money from Dudley and Petunia. Ron didn’t appear to notice.

The twins were already back in their seats as Harry returned to a normal posture. He passed the wand to George, who tucked it up his sleeve with a wink.

Mr. Weasley, Percy, Ginny, and two older Weasleys Harry decided must be Bill and Charlie slowly moved past the crowd near the box entrance. A baby-faced paunchy blond man practically bouncing with excitement talked animatedly to Mr. Weasley—probably Ludo Bagman, Head of Magical Games and Sports—and the tall, thin, irritated man Percy was fawning all over must be Crouch.

“—Bertha Jorkins yet?” Arthur said.

“She’ll be fine, skips all ‘round like this once a year or so,” Bagman said dismissively. Harry raised an eyebrow; Bertha Jorkins’ daughter Megan had gotten possessed in his second year, and since then the family had been traveling and homeschooling Megan. “She’ll wander back into the office in October thinking it’s still July. Batty old thing gets lost all the time.”

“Bertha’s been missing for months,” George said in a low voice. “Mum’s going spare.”

“Don’t think it’s much of a loss, myself,” Fred muttered. “Bloody annoying, she is.” He paused. “Maybe was?”

“Arthur, when you’ve got a moment, I need to sit down with you and Ali Bashir,” Crouch said snappishly. “He’s on the warpath about your embargo on flying carpets—”

“Not _now_ , Bartemius,” Mr. Weasley said, looking harassed. “Ludo, honestly, I think you ought to send someone after Bertha, she was in Albania last I heard on holiday with Randolf and Megan—Bill, Charlie, those seats by the boys—Lucius.”

Harry perked up. The last time Lucius Malfoy and Arthur Weasley were in the same room, it was Flourish and Blotts and they got into a brawl.

Lord Malfoy looked down his nose at Mr. Weasley. Fred looked unhappy about having the Malfoys to his left but at least he had the son immediately next to him and not either parent.

“Good Lord, Arthur,” Malfoy said softly, glancing over the row of Weasleys in the Top Box. “What did you have to sell for these tickets? Surely your house wouldn’t have fetched _that_ much.”

Fred made half a motion; George seized his arm.

Fudge rambled on about the Malfoys’ recent donation to St. Mungo’s, obviously not listening to any of his guests.

“Minister,” Crouch interrupted. “If we could get on with it?” He had a very pinched expression that was probably due to the fountain of enthusiasm that was Ludo Bagman at his elbow. The two men could not have been more opposite; Bagman’s robes were garishly yellow and he had a paunch and not a line on his face, while Crouch wore conservative gray robes, had an ascetic’s lean frame, and a face made of nothing _but_ lines and severity.

“Right, of course,” Fudge said, leading the Bulgarian Minister into the last two seats in the top row. The other Weasleys settled in the front, Ginny shooting a quick grin over her shoulder at Harry, who returned it. Bagman remained standing in the front left corner of the Top Box. Crouch moved around behind them all.

Winky slid off her seat and pressed herself against the back of Ronald’s chair while her master sat down next to Sirius, leaving one empty seat at the end of the row. “Winky, take that seat in case my guest arrives and you need to serve him,” Crouch snapped.

“Begging master’s pardon, but Winky is afraid of heights,” the elf squeaked faintly. “If Master would allow Winky to wait under the chair—”

“Oh, very well,” Crouch nearly snarled, and Winky hurried to scuttle under the empty seat.

Harry’s opinion of Crouch was dropping by the minute and he couldn’t quite hide the dirty look he shot the man. Sirius wasn’t even trying. In hindsight, Harry really shouldn’t have left Sirius a seat right next to Crouch’s. He had the strong sense that Sirius would shove Crouch right out of the box given the opportunity.

“Ready when you are, Ludo,” Fudge said comfortably.

Bagman pointed his wand at his throat. _“Sonorus.”_

Harry filed away the incantation.

“Witches and wizards of the world… Welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!”

The response was deafening. People screamed and clapped and cheered and stomped and fired bangs off with their wands. The Bulgarians let off more fireworks that shot around in whizzing streams of red and black sparks, painting intricate patterns in the sky. Fred and George had a hurried, whispered conference; Harry knew they were working on a line of fireworks of their own.

“And now, without further ado, allow me to introduce… the Bulgarian National Team Mascots!”

“I wonder what they’ve brought,” Mr. Weasley said, leaning eagerly forward. “Aaaah!” He suddenly whipped off his glasses and began to polish them. “ _Veela!”_

“No way,” Sirius muttered. “Harry, Occlude, now.”

Harry did so without a second thought, reaching for his Occlumency defenses. It was becoming easier to throw up his mental shields and step back from himself; he could reach the state of calm, unruffled awareness sometimes with only a few seconds’ effort now instead of the half an hour or more of meditation it used to take.

Not a second later, as he focused on what must be a hundred veela gliding out onto the pitch, he felt it. An allure, stronger than any foreign mind-altering power he’d faced except dementors, to love them, find them irresistible, do whatever he must to impress them… It shoved resolutely against his shields, but he clung to his clear mind and ignored the compulsion.

He nearly snorted. The Bulgarians weren’t pulling their punches.

Sirius leaned back in his seat with a grin, obviously enjoying the sway of the veelas’ hips as they started to dance, an intoxicating rhythm. Ronald and Dean, hilariously, were both standing up and shifting forward, as if in a trance; Jules was gripping the sides of his chair rather hard and the back of his neck was bright red.

George made some jerky motion. Harry, who even with Occlumency was still a hormonal teenager and wasn’t above enjoying the show the veela put on, tore his gaze away from the field and found both of his friends half out of their seats. Ronald and Dean could make fools of themselves with Harry’s blessing but this was different. _“Glacius,”_ he whispered twice, freezing the twins in place. It was easy enough to shove them both back into their seats, wrapping one hand around George to reach Fred’s shoulders. Interestingly, Fudge was slowly turning red and appeared to be gnawing on his thumb, while Malfoy sat relatively unaffected. Someone had been teaching _him_ rudimentary Occlumency.

Sirius laughed suddenly.

Harry glanced over and grinned as Ronald adopted a pose rather like he was about to dive off a springboard and Dean threw one leg over the railing.

The music cut out abruptly and the veela retreated to the side of the field behind the goal hoops to Harry’s right, beneath the Bulgarian section. Jules and Charlie tugged the very embarrassed Ronald and Dean back into their seats.

 “And now,” Bagman roared, “kindly put your wands in the air… for the Irish National Team Mascots!”

Harry flinched just slightly as a massive green-and-gold comet zoomed into the stadium. It did a full circuit of the stands and then split, a smaller ball hurtling toward each end of the pitch. A rainbow arced suddenly between the two clusters of what looked to be tiny greenish blurs if you squinted carefully. The crowd oohed and ahhed.

“Don’t trust leprechauns,” Sirius whispered in an aside to Harry, George, and Fred.

The two clusters of leprechauns, then, shot up into the air, merged together and formed a single glowing green shamrock, and now they were close enough that Harry could see the shamrock was made of tiny bearded men wearing red vests and carrying lamps of gold or green. Something like shimmering rain fell from the shamrock as it soared around the stands—

“Excellent!” yelled Ron, snatching handfuls of the heavy gold coins that fell from the shamrock.

Harry flicked his wand, and all those near him collected into a neat pile.

“Or their gold,” Sirius added, grinning. “It’ll disappear in a few hours, James and I got our hands on some once to pay Peter back for something, I forget what it was…”

“Damn,” George said, letting the coins slip back through his fingers.

Below them, Ron was eagerly shoving handfuls of gold at Jules, saying something about payment for Omnioculars.

“Do we tell him?” George said.

Fred snorted. “Is that even a question?”

Harry smirked.

“And now—I give you the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team! Dimitrov!”

A blurry scarlet-clad figure shot out onto the pitch from an entrance far below. The massive screen showed the man’s face, a stern one filled with determination.

“Ivanova!”

Someone else hurtled out, an auburn-haired woman with a Chaser badge on her arm.

“Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov!”

These four were shown on the screen in their turn; Levski, the other woman on the team, filled out the Chaser ranks with Dimitrov and Ivanova, while Zograf, if Harry remembered right, was the Keeper. The other two were Beaters. All their faces were grim and set.

“Aaaaand—Krum!”

“That’s him, that’s him!” Ron yelled, following Krum with his Omnioculars.

Harry watched the screen instead. Viktor Krum was thin, dark-haired, and pale-skinned, with a beaked nose and a harsh expression. He looked older than his barely eighteen years.

“And now, please greet—the Irish National Quidditch Team! Presenting—Connolly! Ryan! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Quigley! Aaaaand— _Lynch!”_

Seven green blurs shot onto the field. Wanting a closer look, Harry tugged out his Omnioculars and zoomed in on each player in turn while Bagman introduced the Egyptian referee. All fourteen of them were on Firebolts.

Mostafa hovered over the box of Quidditch balls, kicked it open with one foot—the Bludgers shot into the air, and then the Snitch was visible for half a second before it zoomed out of sight—the golden light in here must make it devilishly tricky to spot—

“And they’re off!” Bagman shouted, as Mostafa hurled the Quaffle up into the air and play began. “And it’s Mullet! Troy! Moran! Dimitrov! Back to Mullet! Troy! Levski! Moran!”

“This is incredible!” George screamed.

Harry cheered along with the rest of the crowd. Even most people in the Top Box, save the Malfoy parents and Crouch, had lost all composure. He’d never _seen_ Quidditch played like this; Bagman only had time to say the names of the Chasers in possession before the Quaffle was off again, passed with dizzying speed. He listed Quidditch plays in his head: _Hawkshead Attack Formation, Porskoff Ploy_ —

Five minutes later, Ireland scored the first goal of the game.

The Irish chasers were superb. Anyone with half a brain could see it. They had the kind of seamless teamwork that came from _thousands_ of hours of nonstop, demanding, grueling group practices. They scored twice more within the first ten minutes of the game, bringing the noise level from the green section of the stands to ‘thunderous’ levels and setting the veela sulking.

Volkov and Vulchanov, the Bulgarian beaters, got increasingly brutal. Anger made them vicious and they were starting to disrupt Irish Chaser plays.

Finally, Ivanova managed to dodge through the Irish defense and put the Quaffle past Ryan.

“BULGARIA SCORES!” Bagman bellowed.

Mr. Weasley yelled at his children to stuff their fingers in their ears; Harry threw up a silencing charm around Fred and George and strengthened his Occlumency shields as the veela music filled the air and they began to wildly dance.

He took the charm down when they stopped—the twins muttered a thank-you—Harry only half listened as he focused on the game again, dividing his attention between the Chasers and the Seekers, since there’d be no better opportunity to learn from the best than this—

“Oh I say!” Bagman shouted suddenly.

Harry looked away from Mullet and Ivanova and saw both Seekers hurtling straight for the ground, so fast they looked like they couldn't _possibly_ still be in control of their brooms—he moved his Omnioculars, looking where they were going, but there was no sign of the Snitch—

“Wronski Feint!” Harry gasped, just as Krum very suddenly pulled out of the dive and spiraled off. Lynch, however, couldn’t make it in time. He hit the ground with a dull thud that tore a gasp from most of the stadium. Harry sneered; reactionary idiots.

“Fool!” Mr. Weasley moaned.

“It’s time-out!” Bagman yelled, “as trained mediwizards hurry onto the field to examine Aidan Lynch!”

“He’ll be fine,” the shorter and stockier one of the older Weasley children—Harry thought it was Charlie based on the large burn scar on his tanned right forearm—assured Ginny. “He only got ploughed…”

“I’ve never seen anyone fly like that,” Harry breathed, pressing the replay on his Omnioculars and watching the Wronski Feint in slow motion. “He looks like he doesn’t even need a broom…”

“He’s the best in the world, that’s why,” Malfoy said, leaning around the twins and forgetting all House and political divides in his excitement. “They recruited him since when he was _fifteen_ —”

“Wish I could fly like that,” Fred said.

“Merlin, yes,” Malfoy agreed fervently.

There was a very odd moment as the two looked at each other and simultaneously registered that they’d just agreed about something.

It was broken as Lynch got to his feet at last, to loud cheers from the Irish supporters. He kicked off into the air again. It seemed to revitalize the Irish Chasers; they quickly surpassed even the insane skill level they’d shown before and scored ten goals in just over fifteen minutes. Their lead reached one hundred thirty to ten. The game was getting dirty.

First Ireland got a penalty, and as the players moved into position, the leprechauns soared into the air to spell out the words HA, HA, HA. The veela tossed their hair and began to dance angrily. Harry hastily retreated behind his mental shields and checked on the twins; both were screwing their eyes shut and covering their ears, which was good because this was the strongest the veela compulsion had been yet. It began to overwhelm even Harry’s barriers and he gritted his teeth and fought it off.

“Now we can’t have that!” Bagman shouted. Harry looked down; Mostafa had landed in front of the veela and begun to stroke his mustache and flex his arms. “Somebody slap the referee!”

A mediwizard with his fingers in his ears ran out onto the field and kicked Mostafa very hard in the shins. Mostafa abruptly stopped dancing.

In the ensuing brouhaha of Mostafa trying to send off the veela, arguing with the Bulgarian Beaters, and assigning Ireland another penalty shot for their mutiny, Harry watched Krum. He noted the young man’s grip and technique as he continued his search for the Snitch, oblivious to the drama of the rest of the game save the score. He looked rather angry. He’d have to catch the Snitch very soon if Bulgaria wanted a chance at the Cup.

Not three minutes later, Ireland was given _another_ penalty, and the leprechauns’ mockery got too much for the veela, who left off their dancing entirely and began hurling fire at the leprechauns. The Irish mascots fought back—through his Omnioculars, Harry could see the veelas’ beautiful faces elongating into sharp bird-like beaks, and their hands were growing claws—

Ministry officials ran out to separate the brawling mascots. Harry turned his attention back to the game just in time to see one of the Irish beaters nail Krum in the face.

There was a deafening groan from the crowd. Krum’s nose looked broken, there was blood everywhere, and Mostafa’s broom was on fire so no way was the referee going to interfere.

“Someone call time-out!” Jules screamed furiously, waving his Irish flag. Ronald and Dean were bellowing incoherently at the referee.

Harry screamed in excitement with everyone else as, very suddenly, Lynch shot into a dive.

“He’s seen it!” Harry yelled.

“It’s a feint!” Sirius retorted.

“No it’s not, look at him—” Harry couldn’t see the Snitch and couldn’t have said how he was so sure, but he just _knew_ that this was the real thing.

The volume, impossibly, increased. Krum was hot on Lynch’s tail; how he could see where he was going Harry had no idea with all the blood streaming from his face—

And then, for the second time, Lynch crashed brutally into the ground, only to be trampled by a pack of veela chasing a taunting clot of leprechauns—Harry didn’t care, he was watching Krum stretch out his hand and make a grab—

“He’s got it!” Fred screamed. “Krum’s got the Snitch!”

Krum rose gently into the air, one hand held high, blood still streaming from his face.

The screen flashed to GAME OVER

BULGARIA: 160

IRELAND: 170

The crowd, briefly, didn’t seem to register what had happened. And then, slowly, like the build of an oncoming doxy swarm, the Irish supporters grew louder and louder and then erupted.

“IRELAND WINS!” Bagman shouted. He, like the Irish, seemed taken aback.

“What did he catch the Snitch for?” Ronald shouted, madly waving his shamrock-covered hat. “They lost—”

“Bloody idiot,” Harry muttered, glaring at one of his least favorite people at Hogwarts.

George sighed theatrically. “All our family’s brains skipped him over, unfortunately…”

“No one was expecting _that_ , I think!” Bagman was yelling.

“Except _us_ ,” Fred said, satisfied.

“Good guess,” Malfoy said grudgingly.

Fred grinned. “It was, wasn’t it.”

“Vell, ve fought bravely,” the Bulgarian Minister said gloomily. Harry nearly burst out laughing at the look on Fudge’s face. That really just took the cake.

Fudge paraded the “gallant losers” through the Top Box, and then the Bulgarians stood aside while Fudge presented the Cup to the Irish.

Later, Harry would never be able to decide which was better: Ronald’s look of impotent, blinding jealousy as Lord Malfoy and Fudge introduced the Malfoy heir to Viktor Krum, or the dismayed expression on Ludo Bagman’s face when the twins approached him, smirks firmly in place and hands outstretched.

 

“I-RE-LAND! I-RE-LAND!”

“Merlin, they’re obnoxious,” Harry said, as yet another pack of Ireland supporters decked out in green and screaming and halfway to shitfaced stormed past them down the path.

“They’ve got every right to be,” Sirius said.

His voice was tight, and Harry checked on his godfather for the first time in the forty or so minutes since the match ended. They’ve been roaming the grounds, buying food and drinks from random vendors and watching the festivities and fireworks, though Sirius stuck to butterbeer so he wouldn’t get drunk. Harry’s nerves had been in an exhaustive state of constant hyperawareness, his instincts screaming that he couldn’t protect himself well in this situation and there were _too many unknown people._

Sirius didn’t look much better.

“Okay, this is fun, but how about we find somewhere to… unwind for a bit?” Harry suggested. “They’ve got the celebratory fireworks show at midnight, we don’t want to miss it…”

“Crowds getting to you too?” Sirius said with a grimace.

Harry shrugged. “I don’t like… large groups of people,” he said, eyeing a set of wizards and witches staggering past them, identifiable by the flags tied clumsily across their chests as three Ethiopians, two Japanese, two Americans, and four Chileans singing the Irish anthem in drunken eleven-part accented harmony.

“I used to,” Sirius said, looking around. It was night, and the varied and shifting lights of the campsite cast strange multicolored shadows across his still-hollow cheeks. “It’s just… it’ll take some readjustment, is all.”

“The Malfoys did invite us by,” Harry said cautiously.

“Yeah, what was _that_ all about? I thought you didn’t get along with them.”

Harry considered. “I don’t… but, er, did Regulus ever talk about Slytherin house politics?”

“Enough that I get there’s a distinct hierarchy,” Sirius said darkly.

Harry snickered. “Yes, well, first year, Malfoy the younger assumed his family name and money would let him bully people around and automatically jump to the top of that heap. I proved otherwise. Soundly, between second year and third. I think he’s spoken of me enough for his parents to be curious, and they’re trying to feel you out because their family’s on the Wizengamot too and you’re a bit of a wild card, no really important votes have gone down since you took your seat back so they don’t know for sure how you’ll vote.”

“I’d really rather not go there,” Sirius said. “Haven’t been on speaking terms with anyone in my family except ‘Dromeda since I was seventeen. And even she’s out now after that scene in the hostpital wing.”

“I _really_ hate to say this, but the Weasleys would almost definitely let us stop by,” Harry said. “I know Molly’s there and she loves feeding people. And James is working; he’s been pulling long hours to try and get his reputation back, that’s why he pawned Jules off to them for the day.”

“I was wondering,” Sirius said absently. Harry noticed a flash of movement and realized his godfather was absently running his fingers over the end of his wand, which was tucked into a special pocket in the side of his robes. Definitely time to get out of the crowd. “Yeah, that’s—a good idea.”

Harry pulled his own wand and laid it flat on his palms, after checking around for any Ministry officials in the vicinity. _“Point me: Weasley tent,”_ he whispered.

The ash wand spun on his palm.

They set off, taking whatever paths were going in the general direction of his wand, until they came across a slightly quieter portion of the campsite. The main thoroughfare was still busy and loud, but most of the people were families resting and taking a dinner break before the midnight fireworks show. Some were lighting fires and cooking with their wands; others were dubiously striking matches and turning on battery-powered lanterns like they weren’t sure they would work.

“Don’t eat anything the twins give you,” Harry warned.

Sirius laughed. He’d been reading some of their product descriptions from the monthly reports they sent Harry on their progress, which had gotten even more impressive since he started funding their research, and let them use the Knights Room to test it and store their smuggled goods. Sirius really knew better.

The strident tones of Molly Weasley reached his ears before the campsite even came into view. Harry hid a grimace—he liked Molly, but she could be overbearing.

“— _told_ you to destroy your stock of these!”

“We worked all summer on those!” George bellowed.

“How many times do I have to tell you— _pranking people is not a real job! Accio! Accio!_ ”

Harry and Sirius arrived at the campsite to find Molly Weasley summoning toffees hidden all over Fred and George’s bodies while Ronald and Dean and Percy gagged on vastly overgrown tongues that sagged like purplish slugs down their chests.

“Ton-Tongue Toffees?” Sirius said in an undertone, remembering one of the letters.

Harry smirked. “Yep.” He pulled his own wand and started casting silent Summoning Charms, tucking almost two dozen toffees safely into his expandable Gringotts purse that doubled as a safe-storage bag since no one but him could open it.

George shot Harry a wink over his mum’s shoulder. “Hey, Harry,” he said, like two of his brother and one of his brother’s friends weren’t standing there half-choking on oversize tongues while Mr. Weasley tried to set them right. “Have a fun match?”

“Oh, definitely,” Harry said, ignoring Ronald, Dean, and Percy as well. “Ginny here?”

“She’s off with some of her _friends_ ,” Molly said unhappily. Harry took this to mean Ginny was off with some of her _Slytherin_ friends. “And the Lovegoods.”

That’d be why they let her go at all, then.

The oversize tongues finally began to shrink under Mr. Weasley’s wand.

“Anyway,” Molly said, brushing her hands together and vanishing the toffees she’d confiscated. “Good to see you, Harry dear, and S—er, Lord Black, you as well?”

“Hi, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry said with a bashful smile. “It’s just, er, I don’t do so well with crowds sometimes, and Sirius hasn’t been around this many people in a while, and I thought…”

“Oh, of course,” Molly said, bustling over. “Here, sit down, would you like some tea?”

Jules and the older Weasleys emerged from one of the shabby two-man tents, talking animatedly about dragons with the stocky one while the oldest one—Bill, probably, the Gringotts cursebreaker—chivvied them along.

“Thank you, Mrs. Weasley,” Sirius said, letting Molly lead him and Harry to seats around the crackling wizard flames beneath her cooking pot. It smelled deliciously of a very hearty stew. “And it’s Sirius, please, Lord Black was my grandfather.”

“Oh, good, I do so dislike those formalities,” Mrs. Weasley said. “We really ought to be casting side the old ways, they’re so outdated and foolish…”

Behind her, Bill rolled his eyes.

Jules and Charlie sat down next to Harry. “You must be Harry,” Charlie said, leaning around Jules with a freckled grin. “I’m Charlie, nice to meet you.”

“Er—yeah, you too,” Harry said, shaking Charlie’s callused hand. The familiarity threw him after so long around witches and wizards who relied on traditional manners to guide social interactions. “You’re the dragon one, right?”

“Yep, that’s me,” Charlie said cheerfully. “I hear you used my old room for a bit.”

“I appreciate you moving out,” Harry said, adapting easily to Charlie’s good-humored openness. “Else I’d have had to share a room with Ron, and that wouldn’t end well.”

Jules snorted. “No, definitely not.”

“Or the twins,” Charlie said, with a grimace in Fred and George’s direction as they huddled and whispered by the tents. Probably discussing how to protect their products from their mum for what was left of the summer. “Which might honestly be worse, since they actually _like_ you.”

“How about that match, though?” Jules said, eyes gleaming.

Harry grinned. Quidditch was one of very few things he and his brother had in common besides their looks.

Jules, Charlie, Bill, and Harry went over the game in exhaustive detail while Molly stuffed Sirius full of tea and stew. Harry found himself liking Bill’s cool, composed demeanor and even Charlie’s honest, open cheerfulness (even if he found it naïve). Ronald and Dean fumed for a bit before joining in. It was one of very few civil conversations Harry had had with them in his entire memory.

“Boys, you need to get a few hours’ rest in before we go to the fireworks,” Molly scolded at about a quarter to ten. “Really—”

“They’re young, Molly, let them stay up,” Sirius said, winking at Charlie and Harry. He’d barely spoken two words to Jules and Jules had stubbornly ignored him. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, after all—the Cup won’t be held on British soil again for, oh, probably a century!”

“I suppose,” Molly said, frowning.

Fred and George leaned forward eagerly. They were sitting on the opposite side of the circle around the campfire from Harry. “How ‘bout we play some Exploding Snap while we wait?” George said.

Fred ruffled a pack of cards. “With a special Weasley twist.”

“What’s the Weasley twist?” Dean said warily. Oh, good, at least _one_ of the Gryffindors had sense.

“I’m quite certain it can be adequately summarized as _extra explosions,”_ Percy sniffed. “I’ll be off, I have to get that report on cauldron bottoms in before Mr. Crouch’s deadline. He’s a very busy man, you know.”

“Oh, yes,” George said seriously. “Cauldron bottoms.”

“Revolutionary, that is,” Fred added with a perfectly straight face. “You’ll change the world, Perce.”

Glaring, Percy stormed off into the tent.

“I’ve no desire to singe my fingers, and some work of my own to do,” Bill added, and he and Mr. Weasley retreated to the tent as well while Molly Apparated home, leaving the rest to play Exploding Snap. Sirius, for all he was in his early thirties, had something very boyish to his mannerisms when he was distracted enough that the shade of Azkaban slipped off his mind a little bit, and he fit right into the group.

Harry kept an eye on his watch. He _really_ didn’t want to miss the fireworks. Magical fireworks, based on what the Bulgarian section had set off at the beginning of the match, were sure to be fabulous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay this week! Real life is a bitch at the moment. I promise I haven't died. Thank you to everyone who's left comments; i promise i'll get around to answering them eventually! 
> 
> in other news, i am now halfway through Year Two of Harry Potter: Hogwarts Mystery, and it's actually so much fun. HIGHLY recommend.


	8. The Dark Mark

The screaming started at a quarter past eleven.

Harry jolted upright. He’d pulled out a book to read by firelight while Sirius and the twins swapped tales of pranks past and Charlie talked Quidditch with the Gryffindor fourth years. They all paused, looking uneasily at one another.

“What’s going on?” Dean said.

Sirius got to his feet in an instant. Gone was the boyishness. Harry abruptly remembered that Sirius had been a soldier in a war and then spent twelve years in hell: Azkaban was looking out of his eyes again, and he seemed about ready to kill anyone who tried to get past him.

“I can’t see anything,” he said in a low voice, “but the screaming—it’s coming from the center of the campsite—Stay here.” He started to walk away.

“ _Sirius_ ,” Harry said, latching onto his godfather’s arm.

“Harry,” Sirius said, looking down. “I have to go. People could be hurt.”

“So could _you_ ,” Harry insisted, standing his ground. He struggled to hide the desperate fear. He _couldn’t_ lose Sirius now. Not only because then his guardian would be James—but—he’d never had family to lose before and the thought of it filled him with near-uncontrollable panic. Everyone else could help themselves. “Better to wait—and see what’s happening—”

“I was an Auror,” Sirius said. “I have to help if people are in danger. Stay here, you’ll be safe.”

Harry set his shoulders, didn’t let himself wrap his arms around his body and curl in on himself like he wanted as Sirius walked away. He stood straight and kept his face blank and focused on Sirius’ back until he was out of sight.

“He’ll be fine,” Fred said. He and George had come to stand on either side of Harry.

“He survived Azkaban,” George added. “It’s probably just a fight between the Irish and the Bulgarians.”

“Pretty sure he can handle it,” Fred said.

It was a rare show of sincerity from them. “Thanks,” Harry muttered, and forced himself to turn away.

The screams were still going, though, and it was impossible to relax. Charlie disappeared into the tent and came back out with Bill and Percy and Mr. Weasley in tow; Mr. Weasley snapped off terse orders for all of them to _stay put_ and he and his oldest sons sprinted away in the direction Sirius had gone. The group by the fire sat in thrumming silence. Others were emerging from their tents now, or beginning to hurriedly pack their things; fear and uncertainty clouded the air like noxious smog.

Harry wished he hadn’t left Eriss at home.

Bill Apparated back to the campsite with a _crack_. Harry fired off a curse without thinking, a not entirely legal one. Bill batted it aside with no more than a glance, which spoke volumes. There were bigger issues on his mind than a fourth year casting questionable curses.

“All of you pack up _now_ ,” he said, panting. Sweat streaked his forehead. “Get into the woods—I can’t Apparate the lot of you anywhere—hide.”

“Bill, what’s happening?” Jules demanded.

Bill shook his head. “Hide. I mean it. No heroics, run _away_ from the screaming.”

With another _crack_ , he vanished.

They swapped uneasy glances.

“Should we pack or…” Dean said.

“Grab whatever matters most to you from the tent,” Harry said, shaking off his paralysis. It was a reflex now to bring his Occlumency shields up and block out fear for Sirius and for himself, worry, all emotion, and stay cool-headed and clear of thought. “Hurry.”

His tone brooked no argument. Jules, Ronald, and Dean ran inside, Jules shooting Harry a weird look as he went.

“Nice one,” George said in an undertone.

Harry pointed.

The twins followed his finger, and gasped.

The distinctive orange glow of fire was coming from the direction Sirius had gone, and the screams were louder.

“We need to move,” Harry said grimly. “I’m not an idiot. D’you have everything?”

“We didn’t bring anything valuable,” Fred said. “You?”

“Expandable bag shrunk and in my pocket,” Harry said tersely.

George nodded. “Smart.”

The other boys dashed back out not long after, bags slung over their backs. “What the bloody hell,” Ronald gasped, looking at the fire. The main lane was a mess now; people ran down it in the half-dark towing children and loved ones along with them.

A little girl of maybe six tripped and got shoved out of the crush of people. _“Abbie!”_ someone screamed; a hand grasped, but the parent was being carried away by the flow—

 _“Mobilicorpus_ ,” Harry snarled, pointing his wand at the girl. He jerked her body through the air with no thought for her comfort, only delivering her as fast as he could to that grasping hand before he released the spell. Someone yelled _“Thank you!”_ and then they were gone.

“We need to move,” Jules said.

Harry grabbed the back of his collar and dragged him back as Jules made for the main thoroughfare. “Are you stupid? We’ll only get crushed and probably separated if we jump into that mess. This way.”

“Why?” Ronald demanded.

“Because Bill said to go into the woods,” Harry said, like he was speaking to a child. “That means the woods must be safe. Especially since they’re in the _opposite_ direction of the screaming and the fire. If nothing else, it’ll be easier to hide there. And _that_ is the shortest path to the woods.”

“We’ll be going through other people’s yards,” Jules said.

“Bloody hell, Jules, you pick _now_ to care about the rules?” Fred snarled.

“And I don’t want to hide!” Jules finished, glaring stubbornly. “I can help—I can fight—”

“You are _fourteen_ ,” Harry hissed, struggling to keep the Parselmouth accent out of his voice. It had been emerging when he was angry lately, probably a consequence of spending so much time with Eriss. “The only thing you could do is get in the Aurors’ way! We need to _go!”_

“Harry! Jules!”

_What now?!_

Harry’s anger dissolved when he saw Hermione, Justin, and Neville fighting their way out of the press of people, white-faced with terror.

“Where’s your gran?” Dean said.

“She went to help,” Neville said, looking back fearfully at the fire. “Told us to come here—”

“The older Weasleys are helping,” Harry said. “Bill told us to go to the woods, you coming?”

“Yes,” Justin said instantly.

“Great, this way.” Harry took off. He knew his friends would follow, and the group mindset would drag Jules, Ronald, and Dean in their wake.

Sure enough, he glanced back once; the whole crew was right on his heels. Fear made them fit and Harry’s breath rasped in and out of his chest as he ran and even Hermione and Neville, who played no sports, kept up more or less fine.

“There,” Fred gasped, “the path—”

They thundered along one of several paths into the woods. They weren’t the only people with this idea; Harry saw others, huddled under blankets and whispering in fearful tones, hurrying along carefully—the path was pretty crowded, actually, here under the trees, and when he turned around Fred and George and Ginny were gone—

“Here,” Harry said, ducking into a tiny clearing right off the main path. They could still see what was going on but as long as they were quiet no one would notice them.

“What’s happening?” Dean said, gasping for breath.

Neville’s voice was grim. “My gran said Death Eaters.”

“It was h-horrible,” Hermione said, voice shaking. Neville bit his lip and wrapped an arm around her shoulders and she leaned into him without hesitation. “They were—they were levitating a Muggle family, one of the caretakers of the campsite and his wife and their children, and burning everything…”

Harry flashed back to the Malfoys inviting him and Sirius over. Had that been a kidnapping attempt or something? If so, which of them was the target? Harry couldn’t exactly be used as leverage against James or Jules, and Sirius had no other family to pay a ransom; even Harry couldn’t access the Black vaults—or maybe it was just trying to keep them out of the way?

Or perhaps the Malfoys honestly had no idea what was going on.

“I bet Lucius Malfoy’s out there,” Ronald hissed. “Jules, we should—”

“You should _stay here_ ,” Justin said angrily. “You’ll die if you go running out there like an idiot!”

“Gryffindors don’t hide!” Jules said.

Hermione had her wand in his face in an instant. “These do,” she said. “Smart Gryffindors do, because there’s people _better than us_ at f-fighting out there already and—and you can’t risk yourself, Jules, you’re the Boy Who Lived, and so help me Morgana I will stun you before I let you g-go out there on a suicide mission!”

Harry blinked. Silence fell in the wake of her tirade.

“Okay,” Jules said.

Hermione lowered her wand and leaned into Neville more.

They huddled there in tense silence, listening. The main path was getting more crowded, and people were moving again instead of hiding in stillness, though Harry couldn’t tell why—

A familiar head of blond hair caught his attention. He stood up straighter: Draco Malfoy, hurrying along, _alone_ —

No, those were his parents behind him, Harry recognized them now, though the hoods of their green cloaks were up and both looked exceedingly nervous.

As if his attention drew theirs, Malfoy looked over and saw Harry, and then his eyes flicked over the rest of the group.

The Malfoys were coming their way seconds later.

“Heads up,” Harry said.

Ronald and Dean and Neville got their wands out. Harry and Justin kept theirs in reserve, sharing a hesitant glance—

“Why are you still here?” Lucius Malfoy demanded in a low voice. He and his wife and son slipped deftly out of the lantern-light, into the tiny clearing. “It’s not safe—and where are your parents?”

“They went to help,” Ronald said angrily, glaring at Lord Malfoy.

The man’s sneer flicked over them all, pausing on Justin and Hermione. He glanced at his wife. “You’ll want to move,” he said in a cold voice. “The… aggressors… are moving this way.”

“Be careful,” Malfoy hissed, and then his parents were tugging him away again.

“Am I imagining things, or did Lucius Malfoy just _warn_ us?” Jules said in shock.

“Your imagination’s not that good,” Harry said. “I think we should listen to him.”

“He’s a Death Eater too,” Dean said.

Justin pointed at the crowd. “Yeah, but the crowd’s all moving _away_ from where he pointed—we should listen!”

A bolt of red light shot through the trees. Someone screamed. People exploded into panicked motion.

“Time to go,” Jules agreed.

Harry grabbed Justin’s hand and Justin grabbed Neville’s and Neville hung onto Hermione and with Jules, Ronald, and Dean beside them, they ran into the trees.

Harry quickly lost all sense of direction. The screaming was more distant now. He quickly slowed to a walk. “No wandlight,” Justin whispered, “use the moon, we don’t want anyone spotting us,” and they crept along cautiously, cursing softly whenever someone tripped on a branch that sat invisible in the faint moonlight…

“What’s that?” Neville said suddenly, fear in his voice.

They all paused. There was a distinct rustling and slight wailing coming from off to the right.

“Oh this is stupid,” Hermione said. _“Lumos!”_

In the light of her wand, and then Neville’s, Harry could see sweat and fear lining all their faces; Jules and Ronald crept in the direction of the rustling without hesitation. Dean followed close behind.

“Gryffindors,” Harry snarled under his breath, as Neville and Hermione joined them.

Justin shrugged apologetically. “I mean, it sounds like it’s not many people,” he whispered. “And if someone’s hurt…”

“Oh, fine.” Harry added his own silent _lumos_ to the fray, no sense trying to hide now, and Justin didn’t even comment on the wordless spell, and they sneaked after their friends—

“It’s that elf,” Ronald said suddenly, “look, Winston or whatever its name was—”

“Winky?” Harry sped up and burst out into a clearing. Winky had frozen halfway out of a clutch of bushes, staring at them with eyes the size of saucers.

“Right, the Crouch one,” Jules said. “What are you doing here?”

“Winky is hiding, sirs,” Winky squeaked, and started walking again. She was moving in a strange manner, as though something invisible was holding her back—

“Why can’t she run?” Hermione whispered.

“She’s not been given permission to hide, probably,” Neville said grimly.

Hermione glared. “It’s not right.”

“This is _not_ the time for a tirade about elf rights,” Harry cut her off before she could start. “Yes, some families don’t treat their elves as well as they should, we get it, moving on. Winky, d’you need help?”

“That’s nice of you,” Jules said, surprised and suspicious.

“Don’t get used to it,” Harry snarled. “If we don’t help the elf, you lot aren’t going to move on, are you?”

“Nope,” Hermione said, crossing her arms.

Harry nodded. “Exactly.”

“Winky is fine, sirs,” Winky said stubbornly.

“Let’s keep moving,” Justin said. He glanced sadly at the elf. “She doesn’t want us here, look—”

“Fine,” Hermione muttered, but she kept glancing back, and so did Justin—

Harry was glad to find a path again; this one was lined by lanterns full of wizard fire too, but narrower and mostly empty. They passed a group of goblins counting a sack of gold probably won betting on the match.

They had to drag Ronald and Dean and Justin past a group of veela and their admirers; Neville admitted in a low voice that his gran had gotten him Occlumency training since second year and he wasn’t very good but he could resist the veela pull, more or less. By the time they got out of range—and got Ronald to stop yelling about how he’d invented a broomstick that could get to Jupiter—they were deep in the heart of the forest.

“D’you reckon we can wait here?” Justin asked Harry. The group as a whole, but mostly Harry.

“I think so,” Harry said, looking around. “No one else’s out here, and it’s quiet… we’ll hear anyone coming a long way off.”

“How’ll we get back?” Ronald demanded. “We’re completely lost—”

“We’ll send off sparks if we have to,” Jules said, “but we should definitely wait until we’re reasonably sure it’s safe—”

“What will we do for food?” Neville said nervously.

Harry patted the pocket that held his shrunken emergency bag. “I have enough food for a few days for a single person in here, we won’t starve if we ration it. And we can use _aguamenti_ to get water. But I really doubt we’ll get stuck out here that long.”

“Why do you just carry food around?” Justin said, frowning.

“Er…” Harry wasn’t sure how to explain. Justin was far from spoiled but he’d grown up in a very affluent family. He knew how to work hard and be smart with his money but he’d also never known was it was to go hungry and steal food to survive, never known that kind of want and desperation—

Harry settled on, “Holdover habit from my childhood,” and left it at that.

“Oh,” Justin said, and then there was a slight awkward silence.

“What are you doing here?”

Harry whipped around, wand in his hand. The rest of his friends followed suit; over the years he’d gifted holsters to Hermione and Justin and they and Neville were all quick on the draw after the dueling club; Jules was the only one fumbling at his robes—

“Bagman?” Ronald said incredulously.

Ludo Bagman looked very changed. The boyish enthusiasm was gone; he was very pale and the spring was gone from his step.

“Well—there’s sort of a riot going on,” Ronald said, looking around at the rest of them uncertainly.

“At the campsite,” Neville added. “They’ve got hold of a family of Muggles.”

“Damn them all to Azkaban!” Bagman snapped, glancing up at the moon, and then he Disapparated with a _pop._

“Not exactly on top of things, is he?” Hermione said doubtfully.

“Great Beater, though,” Ronald said.

Dean nodded enthusiastically. “Wimbourne Wasps won the league three times in a row with him on the team—I looked up the old records…”

“Honestly, is Quidditch skill all that matters to you?” Hermione snapped.

Harry sat down against a tree trunk and ignored their bickering. Justin and Neville sat on either side of him. Harry pulled out one of his books and set his wand glowing gently and started reading.

Whispering from Jules and Dean drew his attention. Jules looked frantic and Dean worried.

“What’s wrong?” Harry said wearily.

“Nothing,” Jules said.

Dean rolled his eyes. “He’s lost his wand.”

“Dean!” Jules glared.

“What? They need to know!” Dean argued.

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose.

“He’s right, we do need to know that,” Neville said.

Hermione threw her hands up. “How in Merlin’s name did you lose your _wand?!_ Of all the things—”

“I don’t know, okay?” Jules snapped. “It must’ve—fallen out of my pocket in the chaos or something—”

“Invest in a holster,” Harry said. “And don’t pick any fights until you get it back.”

“ _If_ he gets it back,” Hermione mumbled.

Harry pulled out his second book, _Transfiguration for the Modern Witch and Wizard_ , and waved it in her direction. “Want a read?”

“Please.” She opened it without even looking at the title and lay down on her stomach with the book propped up against Justin’s calves.

Justin closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the tree trunk; Neville started levitating various things around the clearing, presumably to work on his control. He’d gotten a lot better with his new wand. Jules, Ronald, and Dean clustered a little bit away, talking in low voices. Ronald had pulled a figurine of Viktor Krum out of his pocket and was letting it walk around on his palm.

Harry twitched when Justin’s head lolled sideways and landed on his shoulder. Every muscle went tense. He didn’t like people _touching him._

“Calm down,” Neville muttered from his other side. “He’s not hurting you.”

Harry realized his breathing had accelerated and he reached for Occlumency. It was harder in this moment even that in the face of the veela, but he managed, and shoved aside the fear and fight instinct.

“Thanks,” he said when he was under control again, and went back to reading.

It took a while to calm down and Harry never quite lost the awareness of Justin’s head on his shoulder but he got himself almost completely relaxed.

“I hope the others are okay,” Neville said after a while.

“Those poor Muggles,” Hermione said nervously. “What if they can’t get them down?”

“They’ll be fine,” Harry said.

“Mad, though, to do something like this with the whole Ministry around,” Dean said. The Gryffindor boys shifted and leaned closer, joining the conversation. Justin mumbled and sat up.

Jules frowned. “That might be the point. It scares people more if they can do this in the Ministry’s face.”

“Well, look at you using tactical thinking,” Harry drawled, grinning to lessen the impact.

“Shut up,” Jules said, cautiously grinning back. Progress. “I’ve been reading up on stuff like this. If I want to be an Auror I can’t exactly ignore all the history, can I?”

That was a surprise, and a pleasant one. “Not hardly,” Justin agreed sleepily. “I wonder—”

Harry cut him off with an elbow, ears perked.

The rest heard it seconds later: uneven footsteps staggering nearby.

Harry launched to his feet, book abandoned on the ground. Neville and Justin followed suit; Hermione stayed in a crouch, ready to rise if she had to, wand out and book clutched to her chest—of course she’d be protecting the book—Jules clenched his fists but had the sense not to jump wandless in front of Ronald and Dean, who were waving their wands wildly around, sending light bouncing off the trees—

The footsteps stopped.

“Who’s there?” Harry demanded. No sense trying to hide; their wandlight and voices would already have given them away.

No one responded, but he could sense someone standing just out of reach of their light…

_“MORSMORDRE!”_

Hermione squeaked and Neville let out a choked gasp.

Harry had never heard the incantation before.

Something vast, green, and glittering shot into the sky from the area Harry had been looking, and hovered over the treetops, casting the forest in a faint, eerie green glow.

“What the—?” Ronald gasped.

“Oh _shit_ ,” Harry said, because he recognized the spell now. Not the incantation, but the result, because he’d seen it in old newspapers and books: a great green skull, made of emerald stars, with a serpent protruding from its mouth like a tongue. The snake twisted around malevolently.

“The Dark Mark,” Hermione whispered.

And suddenly, the woods were alive with distant screams.

“Run!” Dean bellowed.

Harry was already scooping up his book; Justin hauled Hermione to her feet and they started moving—

A series of pops sounded—

Harry looked around, registered that they were completely surrounded and that all of the new arrivals had wands out and trained on their group—

“DOWN!” he shouted, and hit the dirt.

 _“STUPEFY!”_ roared twenty voices, and jets of red light shot through the trees in all directions—

“Stop! STOP! THAT’S MY SON!”

Harry clutched his ash wand and rolled over, ready to shoot to his feet, to curse or flee—

Mr. Weasley hurried towards them, ashen-faced. “Ron—Jules—what in Merlin’s name are you doing—?”

“We were j-just hiding,” Hermione said. Harry slowly got to his feet, glaring warily around; half the wizards had lowered their wands but the other half kept them up. He saw Amos Diggory, who Sirius had pointed out at one point with distaste; Ethan Thorne, Bartemius Crouch—

—who looked absolutely furious.

“Which of you did it?” Crouch hissed, glaring between all of them. He focused on Harry. “Which of you cast the Dark Mark?”

“We didn’t do that!” Jules said, pointing up at the sky.

“We didn’t do anything!” Ronald added angrily. “What did you attack us for?”

“Do not lie!” shouted Crouch. He had his wand out and he looked mad, but at least he was looking at Ronald now. Harry took a subtle step back, nodding at Justin to do the same. This man was unhinged. “You have been discovered at the scene of the crime!”

“Barty, they’re _kids_ ,” whispered a witch in a woolen dressing gown, “they’d hever have been able—”

“Where did the Mark come from?” Mr. Weasley said quickly.

“That way,” Harry said, nodding in the direction of the footsteps. Several wizards hurried over to search. “We were hiding from the Death Eaters—Hermione and Justin are Muggle-born, we thought they might be in danger—” and it would head off Crouch’s obvious desire to accuse the Slytherin in the group if he threw the _protecting my Muggle-born friends_ thing in their faces early on—“and we heard someone running over, so we asked who it was, and then they shouted something, I didn’t recognize the spell—and then—”

He broke off as if too shaky to continue.

“Back off the lads, Barty,” someone said. Harry recognized Edwin McKinnon, an elected member of the Wizengamot, as he stepped forward and looked at Crouch with ill-disguised dislike. “Mr. Potter’s clearly frightened, no child could’ve done this—”

“Our Stunners went right through those trees,” Amos Diggory said excitedly. “There’s a good chance we got them—come on, Barty—”

Crouch didn’t move, but Diggory went and joined the searchers, as did the witch in the dressing-gown. Mr. Weasley hovered nearby. Harry couldn’t blame him in the slightest for not wanting to leave his son with Crouch like this.

“Yes! We got them! There’s someone here! Unconscious—but… blimey…”

“You’ve got someone?” Crouch shouted, obviously disbelieving. “Who? Who is it?”

Snapping twigs and rustling leaves heralded the searchers’ approach; a few empty-handed witches and wizards returned to the circle of wandlight and all of them shot nervous glances at Crouch.

Harry saw why seconds later: Diggory carried the limp and unconscious form of Winky the house-elf in his arms.

“Oh no,” Hermione moaned softly.

Diggory deposited the tiny body on the grass at Crouch’s feet. For a few seconds, Crouch stared down at her, eyes blazing in his white face, and then he jerked back to life.

“This—cannot—be,” he snapped.

“No point, Barty, there’s no one else there,” Diggory said, but Crouch ignored him and disappeared, and they could all hear him rustling frantically about, searching.

“Bit embarrassing,” Diggory said grimly. “Barty Crouch’s house-elf… I mean to say…”

“Come off it, Amos,” Mr. Weasley said quietly, “you don’t really think a house-elf cast the Dark Mark? It’s a wizard’s sign, and it requires a wand…”

“Yeah,” Diggory said, “and she had one.”

 _“What?”_ Mr. Weasley said.

Several other Ministry wizards hurried over, including Ethan Thorne and an empty-handed twitchy Barty Crouch. A witch Harry didn’t recognize took the wand and mumbled a few spells, turning it over in her fingers. “Phoenix feather core…” she said. “Can’t tell the wood, it’s resisting diagnostics.”

“Phoenix,” Thorne said, turning on Harry. “Hadrian Potter has a phoenix-feather core.”

Inexorably, their gazes turned on Harry.

“He’s the only Slytherin here,” someone muttered.

Harry recoiled, pasting terror, compliance, innocence onto his face— “I didn’t do it, I would _never_ ,” he said, “and my wand’s right here, look—”

He held up the ash wand, hoping in the eerie half-light no one would notice it wasn’t his normal wand—

“He was with us the whole time,” Hermione said angrily. “He never cast that spell!”

“She’s right,” Jules said loudly. “He didn’t do it! We were all with him!”  

“Spruce,” the witch examining the wand announced. “It’s made of spruce.”

 “Hey,” Jules said very suddenly, “that’s my wand!”

Harry resisted the urge to drop his face into his hands. Of course it was.

“Excuse me?” Diggory said.

“I dropped it!”

“You dropped it?” repeated Diggory in disbelief. “Is this a confession? You threw it aside after you conjured the Mark?”

“Amos! Get hold of yourself!” Mr. Weasley said angrily. “Is _Julian Potter_ likely to conjure the Dark Mark?”

“Er,” Diggory said, shifting his feet and looking away. “Of course not. Sorry… carried away…”

“He didn’t lose it here, anyway,” Dean said. “It’s been missing for a while.”

“So,” Diggory said, turning back on Winky with a hard face. “You found this wand, did you, and thought you’d have some fun with it? Thought you’d scare some wizards, eh, elf?”

“I is not doing magic with it, sir!” Winky squeaked. Tears rolled down her face. “I is… I is… I is just picking it up, sir! I is not making the Dark Mark, sir, I is not knowing how!”

“It can’t have been her!” Hermione said. She looked very nervous, but Neville shot her an encouraging nod and Justin stepped closer to her shoulder. “Winky’s got a squeaky high-pitched voice and we all heard a much deeper one!”

“And the footsteps were too loud to be an elf,” Harry added. “She’s tiny.”

“They’re right,” Jules said, stepping forward and lifting his chin. He had his Boy Who Lived face on, and Harry experienced a rare moment of gratitude for his brother’s fame. “It can’t have been the elf. It was a human voice.”

 _“Prior Incantato,”_ the witch said, pressing the tip of her wand to Jules’.

Hermione gasped as a cloud of gray smoke shot out of Jules’ wand and formed a smaller shadow of the Dark Mark that hovered high over their heads.

“ _Deletrius!_ ” Diggory shouted, and the shadowy Dark mark faded.

“So,” he said with savage triumph.

“I is not doing it!” Winky squealed, shaking and rocking. “I is not knowing how! I is not, I is not, I is a good house-elf, I isn’t knowing how!”

 _“You’ve been caught red-handed, elf!”_ Diggory shouted. _“Caught with the guilty wand in your hand!”_

“Amos,” said Mr. Weasley loudly, “think about it—precious few wizards know how to do that spell—where would she have learned it?”

“Perhaps Amos is suggesting I routinely teach my servants to conjure the Dark Mark?” Crouch said icily.

An unpleasant silence descended. Harry fought the urge to smirk at the horror on Diggory’s face; he had to keep up the guise of terrified fourteen-year-old with Thorne lurking there just _waiting_ for a reason to pounce on him.

“Mr. Crouch… not… not at all…” Diggory stammered.

“You have now come very close to accusing the two people in this clearing _least_ likely to conjure that Mark!” Crouch barked. “Julian Potter—and myself! I suppose you are familiar with the boy’s story, Amos?”

“Of course—everyone knows—” muttered Diggory.

“And I trust you remember the many proofs I have given, over a long career, that I despise the Dark Arts and those who practice them?” Crouch shouted, his eyes bulging.

“I never suggested you had anything to do with the Mark!” Diggory protested.

Crouch shook his fist. “To accuse my servant is to accuse me! Where else might she have learned it but from her master?”

“She could’ve—could’ve picked it up somewhere,” Diggory stammered.

“Exactly,” said Mr. Weasley. “Picked it up somewhere—where’d you find this wand?” he said, kindly.

Winky was twisting the hem of her tea towel enough to start it fraying under her fingers. “I is—I is finding it there, sirs..” she pointed one trembling finger, “there, in the… in the trees…”

“Whoever did it must have Disapparated and left Julian’s wand behind,” Mr. Weasley said. “And Winky here had the misfortune to pick it up.”

“But then, she’d have seen the one who did it!” Diggory said impatiently. “Elf? Did you see anyone?”

Harry narrowed his eyes as Winky’s gaze flicked over Diggory, the other wizards around them, and landed, terrified, on her master. She gulped. “I is seeing no one, sir… no one…”

_She’s lying. And Crouch has to do with why._

“Amos,” Crouch said curtly, “I’m aware that, in normal circumstances, you’d want to take Winky into your department for questioning. I ask you, however, to allow me to deal with her. Rest assured she will be punished.”

“Er… all right,” Diggory said unhappily.

“M-m-master…” Winky said, looking up at Crouch with fresh tears rolling down her face. “M-master, p-p-please…”

Crouch stepped back, no pity in his gaze. “Winky has behaved tonight in a manner I would not have believed possible,” he said slowly. “I told her to remain in the tent. I told her to stay there while I went to sort out the trouble. And I find out she disobeyed me. _This means clothes.”_

“No!” shrieked Winky. “No, master! Not clothes, not clothes!”

It was honestly pitiful, and many of the Ministry witches and wizards turned away from the sight of Winky prostrating herself at Crouch’s feet, clutching at the hem of his robes.

Crouch kicked her away and stepped back. A nasty silence followed, broken only by the elf’s wails.

“Well,” Mr. Weasley said, “I’ll just—take this lot back, if no one’s got any objections—Amos, that wand’s told us all it can, perhaps we could return it to Julian now?”

Jules clutched it in his hand instead of pocketing it.

Mr. Weasley led them all in a hurry away from the clearing. “Harry—Jules—I hear you can both cast Patronuses,” he said. “Have you worked out how to send messages with them yet?”

“No,” Jules said.

“I’ve read about it,” Harry said. “You just concentrate, right?”

“Yes,” Mr. Weasley said. “Er—Neville, your gran will want to know—and Sirius—”

 _“Expecto patronum_ ,” Harry muttered, and concentrated very hard, and two copies of his wolf Patronus formed on the grass at his feet. They were a bit smaller and paler than usual. He focused on the one on the left. “For Augusta Longbottom—Neville, Justin, and Hermione are safe and headed to the Weasley campsite,” he said.

The wolf licked Harry’s leg with its formless tongue and bolted away, silvery form fading quickly.

He turned on the second, already getting a bit of a headache from the magic and the concentration. “For Sirius Black—I’m safe; find me at the Weasleys’,” he said.

That wolf, too, turned and ran away.

Harry gritted his teeth and holstered his wand with shaking fingers.

“Excellent, excellent—come on, you lot, no talking, _please_ —”

They hurried along in Mr. Weasley’s wake in tense silence. Harry’s mind worked furiously, turning over the events of the last few hours: he was quite sure that Winky hadn’t cast the Dark Mark, and also quite sure that she was hiding something. He’d never seen a house-elf so motivated to disobey their master; even Dobby hadn’t directly disobeyed the Malfoys, only punished himself for thinking badly of them and doing what he knew they’d disapprove of. Crouch, then, was probably furious that his elf was hiding things from him. Which explained his anger, if not the man’s obvious instability. He was even more of an anti-Dark zealot than Sirius had made him sound.

 When the small group popped out of the forest, a crowd of people was waiting, milling nervously about. They erupted into questions and accusations upon seeing Mr. Weasley.

“What’s going on in there?”

“Who conjured it?”

“Arthur—it’s not— _Him?”_

“Of course it’s not Him,” Mr. Weasley said impatiently. “We don’t know who it was; looks like they Disapparated. Excuse me, please, I’d like to get to bed.”

The crowd reluctantly parted. They hurried onward.

Bill and Charlie shot to their feet when Mr. Weasley pulled aside the tent-flaps to allow the fourth years in. “Did you get them?” Bill said sharply.

“No,” Mr. Weasley said, slumping into a chair. “They Disapparated—George, Fred, Ginny—?”

“They’re here, got back all right,” Charlie said.

“I made them take light Sleeping Draughts and go lie down,” Bill added. “They were really shaken. Is everyone all right?”

“We’re fine,” Jules said. Harry let him be the spokesperson and slipped off to one side. Hermione and Justin and Neville came with him. They squeezed onto a couch and Harry took the end so he had only Neville next to him; Neville he didn’t mind so much sitting crammed in next to.

With some assistance from Jules, Dean, Ronald, and Hermione, Mr. Weasley told Bill, Charlie, and Percy what had happened. Percy was very indignant on behalf of Mr. Crouch and managed to pull off looking pompous despite a bloody nose. Charlie had a large tear in his shirt and Bill was alternating between a bedsheet and healing charms to slow the bleeding from a curse-cut on his arm.

“Why’s it such a big deal?” Ronald said. “The Dark Mark, I mean.”

“He’s an idiot,” Justin whispered.

“Ron, the Death Eaters shot it into the sky over houses and buildings they’d attacked,” Mr. Weasley said wearily. “It’s a sign that someone died. Imagine coming home and seeing the Dark Mark hovering over your house… It’s been thirteen years since anyone last saw that Mark in the sky. Of course people panicked. It was like having You-Know-Who back again, even more so than seeing people parading around in masks. I expect we saw what’s left of the Death Eaters tonight—those who managed to stay out of Azkaban…”

“We can’t prove it was them,” Bill said grimly. “Didn’t catch a one.”

“Lucius Malfoy wasn’t one of them,” Neville said. “We saw him his family in the woods—they warned us, told us to move away—”

Mr. Weasley looked thunderstruck. “They did _what?”_

“Because of Justin and me,” Hermione said. “He looked at both of us—told all six of us to start moving because the ‘aggressors’ were coming our way—”

“I’ll be damned,” Charlie said. “That’s—out of character.”

Harry agreed that it was very odd. Everything about this night was odd. Winky, the Dark Mark, Crouch, the Malfoys—and all of it, he was certain, was tied to old tensions and simmering resentments from the war.

“Why’d they Disapparate when they saw the Mark, then?” Ronald said.

“Use your brains, Ron,” Bill said. “If they were Death Eaters, they worked hard to stay out of Azkaban—sometimes that meant giving up names, or using the Imperius Defense. Lying. I bet they’d be even more frightened than the rest of us to see You-Know-Who back. They denied him when he lost his powers… I don’t reckon he’d be overly pleased with them, do you?”

It was almost definitely more complicated than that. Bill was thinking like a Gryffindor, but frankly, Harry in Voldemort’s place would be much happier if his followers stayed out of prison and kept gaining influence as long as they remained loyal in secret. He’d rather have sane followers well-placed in wizarding society when he found his way back to a body than a bunch of nut jobs locked in Azkaban and therefore useless. Then again, that was assuming _Voldemort_ was sane, which most people didn’t—but they hadn’t met his teenaged self. He might’ve gone crazy when he was older but the sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle had been absolutely stable and in control. Potentially psychopathic, of course, but not _insane_.

So it really depended on who exactly was under those hoods. Harry thought of the Malfoys’ retreat. Either they were loyal and the hooded loons weren’t, and the Malfoys were avoiding pretenders or good-weather followers having some drunken Muggle-baiting fun, or the Malfoys _weren’t_ loyal, and fleeing into the woods was them saving their necks from those who’d stayed true to Voldemort and would want their pound of flesh. If the former, then Voldemort wasn’t as crazy as people thought. If the latter, then he _was_.

“Harry!”

Harry blinked. “Sorry, what?”

“You spaced out there, Harry,” Hermione said.

He smiled ruefully. Everyone in the tent was staring at him. “Sorry,” he said. “I guess I’m still kind of in shock… what was that?”

“I just got a message from Sirius,” Mr. Weasley said, holding out a scrap of paper.

Harry snatched it eagerly. _Helping with cleanup—I’m fine—go home with the Weasleys and then Floo to Grimmauld Place_ , it read in Sirius’ hand, scrawled messier than usual.

“You don’t… mind?” he said hesitantly.

“Certainly not,” Mr. Weasley said, almost offended. “Come on, you lot, if we pack up now Basil—he’s the keeper of the Portkeys—he might be able to get us out before the crush happens. Bill, can you give some Pepper-Up to Ginny and the twins? We need everyone walking.”

The Weasleys kicked into gear. Harry, not wanting to get in the way of their packing, slipped outside to wait; Neville, Hermione, and Justin followed him. They sat down in the conjured chairs around the now-cold fire pit.

“What a mess,” Neville said after a moment.

Harry nodded, exhausted.

“I can’t believe Thorne just jumped to accuse _you_ when he heard ‘phoenix core,’” Hermione said huffily. “And that one person who complained about you being a Slytherin. It’s hardly fair!”

Harry and Justin stared at her while Neville rubbed his temples.

Hermione blushed bright red. “Okay, yes, I see the irony—you’ve proven your point about anti-Slytherin prejudice, all right? I apologized after second year for that.”

“You did,” Harry agreed, smirking slightly. “And I accepted it, why d’you think we’re still friends?”

“My intelligence and sense of humor, of course,” Hermione sniffed.

“That, and you keep him up to date on Gryffindor news,” Justin added.

Harry snickered. Neville half-laughed, having long ago given up trying to curb what he saw as distasteful Slytherin thought processes, and Hermione only managed to maintain her composure for a few seconds before she, Neville, and Justin were howling with laughter. Harry didn’t laugh _outright_ but he felt their contagious amusement. Or not amusement, really—a release of tension, somewhere between relief and hysteria and fading shock.

When it finally died down, the four of them sat in companionable silence. Hermione cast a Bluebell Flame charm in the fire pit. Neville curled up and fell asleep in his chair; Justin and Hermione followed suit not long after. Harry couldn’t quite get himself to relax to the point of sleep, but he managed to slip into a half-awake doze and let time pass in a haze…

“Hadrian?”

Harry looked up, saw Augusta Longbottom, and struggled to his feet on limbs stiff from the cold night and inactivity. “Lady Augusta,” he said.

“Well met. My grandson—ah.” The formidable old woman was disheveled and slumped with obvious relief upon seeing Neville passed out in his chair, twisted on his side and mouth hanging open.

“We’re all fine,” Harry assured her, and told her an abbreviated version of the story.

“Merlin,” Augusta sighed, running a hand over her steel-gray hair. “The Dark Mark at the Quidditch Cup… I thank you for looking out for my grandson, Hadrian.”

“Of course,” Harry said. “Have you seen Sirius anywhere?”

“He’s fine,” Augusta assured him, and it was Harry’s turn to feel his shoulders relax as some of his worry drained away. “He’s finishing up a search patrol for anyone lost in the woods, he said you’ve been given orders to go back with the Weasleys?”

Harry glanced over his shoulder. “They should be packed up pretty soon, mostly what we have left is to take the tents down…”

“Of course,” Augusta muttered. “You’re welcome to return with me and use the Longbottom Manor Floo, if you wish. Our Portkey goes right to our backyard. It will likely be a longer wait, though.”

“I’d rather beat Sirius home,” Harry said. “Thank you very much, Lady Augusta.”

He helped her wake Justin, Neville, and Hermione, and tolerated Hermione hugging him goodbye, just as the Weasleys walked out of the tent with their bags packed and began taking down the campsite. This, Harry could help with; he was Muggle-raised and Dean was Muggle-born, and they were the only people who were even halfway decent at taking down the tent. Harry decided that Dean was actually pretty decent when he wasn’t around Ronald.

Bags packed and campsite cleaned, they trooped across the field to the Portkey site. There was already a small crowd gathered and clamoring for Portkey access, and it was only growing.

Mr. Weasley led them around the edge of the crowd. “Basil,” he shouted, waving his arm.

A harried man rushed over to them. “That one, the tire,” he said, and aimed his wand at the item in question. “It’ll activate in thirty seconds, the Diggorys are already here—”

Harry got swept up in the Weasley crush, along with Jules and Dean. “Ginny?” he managed to ask George. He’d thought they would meet her here, but no one seemed to be on the lookout.

“With the Lovegoods,” Fred said.

They clustered around the tire and everyone reached out to put a finger on it. Harry found himself jammed between Dean and a seventh-year Hufflepuff he vaguely remembered from school, Amos Diggory’s son. Harry couldn’t remember the young man’s name and there was no time to ask before the Portkey sunk its magic into their stomachs and dragged them away.

“See you later, Arthur,” Amos Diggory said tersely, and then he dragged his son away in the opposite direction the Weasleys were going. Harry wasn’t sad to see him go. Something about the earnestness in the boy’s expression put him off, and he had a very unpleasant impression of Mr. Diggory after the whole scene in the woods.

They trekked down the hill, across Ottery St. Catchpole, and up into the moors on the other side, where the Burrow sat, hidden from the Muggles by the rolls of land. Harry walked with Fred and George and the three of them talked in low voices about the Ton-Tongue Toffees. The one bright spot was when Ron drew his wand and tried to cast a drying charm on his shoes and it squeaked and turned into a rubber chicken. He reddened and demanded the twins return his actual wand, which George did after a bit of posturing.

Harry said a hurried goodbye to them all and took the Floo home to 12 Grimmauld Place.

Sirius wasn’t back yet, so Harry had Kreacher make a large breakfast and parked himself in the kitchen to read _A Ministry Unspeakable’s Guide to Body Language_. The elf bustled around and kept the food warm once it was done.

At half past nine, Sirius finally appeared, exhausted and sweaty and filthy, in the fireplace.

Harry set the book aside immediately. “You’re all right?” he demanded.

“Fine. You? Made it back all right?” Sirius said, obviously checking Harry over.

“No problems at all.” Harry slumped back down into his seat under a wave of crushing relief. “Had Kreacher make us breakfast.”

“Thanks,” Sirius said, and fell ravenously on the meal, eating more like a dog than a person. Harry thanked Kreacher, who peered at both of them before announcing that he was going to go draw two hot baths.

“He’s getting downright decent,” Sirius said.

Harry tried to smile. “You’re being decent to him.”

“Yes, all right, point taken,” Sirius grumbled, and shoved another bite of food into his mouth.

Harry ate his own breakfast at a slower pace and tried not to think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yesterday's chapter was kind of boring filler and i'm impatient to get them back to school already, so here, have the actual World Cup drama a week early. 
> 
> A/N: Pottermore wand woods page + discussion.   
> a/n 2: I just realized I’ve been using the wrong incanation for Priori Incantatem: that’s the name but the actual words to cast it are prior incantato.


	9. Off to a Slytherin Start

Steam swirled across Platform 9¾, eddying around ankles and faces. Harry squinted and muttered a quick _ventus_ charm to try and clear the area around him and Sirius. It was hard to pick anyone out of the crowd from more than a few meters away.

“They’re avoiding me,” Sirius grumbled.

Harry looked around, then up at his godfather. There were a lot of people staring their way with some combination of wariness, hostility, curiosity, and pity. As soon as people noticed the tall and still-slightly-gaunt figure of Lord Sirius Black striding across the platform, they recoiled a bit and started whispering. Sirius kept his chin up. Irritation hardened his face.

“They don’t matter,” Harry said dismissively.

Sirius snorted. “Fair point.”

But he didn’t relax.

Harry checked one more time that he had his trunk and his wand and Eriss, who spent her time in his bag now that she was too large to conceal herself easily under his robes even with Notice-Me-Not charms. “I should go,” he said. “Might take a bit to find the others in this.”

“It will, at that,” Sirius agreed, looking around. “The steam gets like this sometimes, Peter said he went and looked once and the conductors sometimes screw up something with the steam valves and it fills the platform…”

Frankly, Harry didn’t care, but he knew how important it was for Sirius to work on recovering and strengthening his positive memories of before Azkaban, since those were the weakest and in some places completely missing after twelve years of dementor torture, so he listened and pretended to be interested until Sirius left off about the steam valves.

Harry hesitated. This was where most people would go in for a hug, but he didn’t do hugs—

Sirius stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Harry’s shoulders.

For one blinding second, Harry’s mind went blank under an onslaught of some of his worst childhood memories, all the times people touched him only for it to end badly, for them to hurt him or hold him down, and his entire body tensed with preparation to fight his way free—

And then his logical mind kicked in again and he forced himself to stay still. This was Sirius. If this summer had proven anything, it was that Sirius did genuinely care.

Stiffly, Harry raised his arms and reciprocated. He couldn’t quite figure out what to do with his hands and his face was awkwardly mashed against Sirius’ chest—damn his height—but it was… not horrible.

He still thanked Merlin in his head when Sirius pulled away after a mercifully short interval. “Have fun this year,” Sirius said, winking. “Don’t get caught pranking anyone, and call me on that mirror if you need _anything_. Oh—speaking of which.” He pulled a bit of parchment out of his pocket with a flourish.

Harry read it.

_I, Lord Sirius Orion Corwin Black, do hereby give my permission for Hadrian Sirius Potter to attend school-sanctioned Hogsmeade visits with his peers._

“I’ve already written Snape,” Sirius said, shoving his hands into his pockets with a smug expression. “He’s agreed, but hang on to that in case Filch or Dumbledore gives you a hard time.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, unable to stop himself smiling like an idiot. He got his expression under control in a few seconds, but still. He’d be able to go to Hogsmeade _legally_ this year. Go through Zonko’s with the twins and the bookstore with Theo and Hermione and Daphne and Honeydukes with all his friends and not have to worry about hiding the whole time. “Wait, you wrote _Snape?_ And he wrote back?”

Sirius made a face. “I still don’t _like_ him, but he doesn’t outright hate me… as much… now. We can exchange civil letters, at the very least.”

“Thank you,” Harry repeated. He tucked the precious paper into his robes. He couldn’t wait to tell his friends.

“Best take off then,” Sirius said, grinning. “Have a good ride—no dementors on the train this year, I’m sure…”

“I can fight them off now,” Harry said, twirling his wand with a smirk. “Bye, Sirius.”

“Bye, Harry.”

Refusing to glance over his shoulder, Harry slid away into the fog.

First stop: the Weasley twins. They’d written him to tell him not to send the September product development funds via owl post, as their mum was cracking down on mail. He had to pass off the Galleons and get a set of trick wands and assorted candies that Harry was getting as the first wave of returns on his investment; he planned to have all sorts of fun with the third year Slytherins with the wands, and possibly slip Montague a Ton-Tongue Toffee.

Harry got sick of the steam in less than a minute and drew his wand. _“Point me, Weasley family_ ,” he said, knowing they’d probably all be together.

The wand spun in his hand.

He was so focused on following it that he nearly ran into another very large family seeing off two sulking first years; there were four adults and _nine_ children running about their feet. Seemed the Weasleys weren’t the only set to produce loads of offspring. Harry dodged around this family and spotted some distinctive red hair.

“—do wish Albus… conviction…” he heard.

Harry froze. Not that he was nosy… but, well, he _was_ , and he had no qualms about eavesdropping, so—

 _“Amplius audi_ ,” he muttered, throwing up his Occlumency shields just in time to manage the onslaught of sensory information.

“Such a shame.” Molly Weasley’s whisper swam into comprehensible syllables. “Poor Harry—I mean, I knew something was wrong that summer the twins brought him home, he looked so skinny and shy…”

“I wish I didn’t understand Albus,” Arthur said unhappily.

Molly sighed. “Those wards… they could’ve been Jules’ last line of defense… but to come at the cost of Harry’s childhood.”

The bottom was dropping out of Harry’s stomach.

“Albus was telling me, you know, when we had him for dinner the other night, after you’d gone up to get the boys in bed…” Arthur said. “It took four months of work to get the wards up and Harry just shattered them without a thought…

“I do wish Harry’d been more careful,” Molly said. “I’m sure they could’ve worked out some kind of settlement—something to make sure he’s safe but also keep the wards up…”

Arthur shuffled around. “After that mess at the Cup—things feel like they’re heating up again, and I keep thinking how important it is that we’re unified… Albus and James made some horrid mistakes but—I can’t help thinking we’ll need them. Albus, mainly.”

Harry jerkily flicked his wand and canceled the spell. Turned around. Walked numbly for the train. He was distantly aware of Eriss hissing at him from in his bag but she didn’t dare come out in full view of anyone within ten feet of him on the platform and he ignored her. His entire body was shaking and anger slowly turned his limbs to ice.

“Harry? Harry—”

Harry whipped around.

Theo reared back, looking _afraid_ for half a second. “Harry, mate, what the hell? You look—er, like you’re about to murder someone…”

Taking a deep breath, Harry got himself under control. He could feel Eriss’ pounding worry through the familiar bond; she was shoving it clumsily at him in an effort to get his attention. He forced some reassurance back at her. “I’m… okay. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Look, if you really want to murder Weasley, you know I’m down to help,” Theo said, elbowing him. “My father says hello, by the way, and that he’s glad you and Hermione and Justin and Neville dodged the chaos at the Cup.”

“Mostly,” Harry muttered. “Have you made progress on the notebook runes?”

“Been working at them but it’s hard to tell,” Theo said. “I need to talk to you guys.”

“Good, I know the others have been on it too—hopefully we can sort it out by Halloween,” Harry said. “Be nice to be able to communicate with each other from in our dorms.”

“So what got you in such a bad mood there?” Theo said seriously.

Harry hesitated. “Just… overheard… some things I didn’t want to hear.”

“Always better to know,” Theo said grimly.

“True.” He’d much rather know _now_ that the Weasleys were as worried about the war as they were Harry’s personal safety and happiness.

He pushed his bitterness aside as hard as he could. They had a right to be worried about a war, especially since so many of their children would undoubtedly involve themselves in it. And Jules had been around them longer than Harry; of course he’d take priority in Mrs. Weasley’s worry, even though Harry had spent a load of time with them the last three summers.

It still hurt.

“Let’s find the others,” he said, eager to distract himself with their notebook project and Blaise’s lazy humor and Pansy’s quick-witted laughter. “I have some ideas for modifying eleventh form runes with third and seventh.”

 

Harry and Theo collected Pansy, stopped in a compartment of Jules’ friends where Pansy made fun of Ronald Weasley’s dress robes while Theo and Harry provided a laugh track, and then joined Neville, Blaise, Justin, Hermione, Luna, and Daphne in a compartment near the back of the train. Harry’s research crew whipped out their notes and books—all of them had owl ordered at least four books from Flourish and Blotts now to help with their research, and Harry, Theo, and Daphne included some old restricted texts on runes from either Knockturn or their family libraries. Hermione just shrugged when told they were illegal and opened a worn leather-bound tome from the Greengrass collection with unmistakable reverence. Luna, unsurprisingly, had some highly unconventional but brilliant (or insane) ideas about runes that quickly set off a fiery argument. Neville, Blaise, and Pansy, who didn’t take Ancient Runes, tuned out the debate and talked quietly in the corner.

Time flew by and before Harry knew it, the one-hour-left alarm went off.

“I’d best go find my trunk,” Luna said serenely. “I think someone moved it… hopefully it hasn’t been left on the platform.”

“Has that happened?” Harry said.

“Last year.”

Hermione frowned. “Luna, why don’t you come with me? We can track down Anthony and Lisa and see if they can’t help sort out your trunk.”

“Okay,” Luna said, and they left, Luna’s “You have a lot fewer Wrackspurts this year, Hermione, have you done something with your hair that acts as a shield?” the last thing they heard before the compartment closed.

Theo shook his head. “That girl is so odd.”

“Look at this, though,” Daphne said, tracing a runic array she’d drawn up with Luna’s help. “This could be the foundation for the notebooks—we’ve managed to make them mimic when someone adds or deletes a page, but not the writing, especially not on a network that only sends messages to some of us—”

Harry dove right back into the discussion.

Ten minutes later, the door banged open. “—don’t understand why you can’t play chess with your _own_ friends,” Hermione snarled.

“Have you _met_ my supposed friends?” a familiar voice drawled. Harry’s head jerked up. “The only challenge they’d pose over a chessboard is for me to stop myself screaming at their idiocy.” 

Harry froze in shock right along with everyone else in the compartment. Draco Malfoy sauntered in on Hermione’s heels.

The blond bestowed a sneer on the compartment, but he paused when his eyes came to Harry, and there was a distinct edge of uncertainty, fear, and questioning hiding under the calculated mask.

“Hermione,” Harry said slowly.

Hermione sat down with a huff. “He wants to play chess, Harry, who am I to stop him? Oh, and we found Luna’s trunk, and after she left I got our Ravenclaw friends to say they’ll look out for her this year.”

“All right, then,” Harry said, and turned his most charmingly adolescent grin on Malfoy. Malfoy promptly blanched. He was a Slytherin and he knew Harry, knew any expression that guileless was hiding a threat, and Harry knew he’d pick up on the message.

With Harry’s acceptance, the rest of the group relaxed.

Malfoy sat down across from Hermione, between Blaise and Harry, and set the chessboard hovering between him and Hermione with a wave of his wand and a muttered spell. Harry kept an eye on the two of them. Malfoy’s posture was studied and stiff; he was trying too hard to look like he was paying attention to nothing but the chessboard. Hermione, on the other hand, promptly lost herself in the game; she’d been annoyed since first year by Ronald Weasley’s chess skills and resolved to beat him. Harry was intensely curious who would win this impromptu match.

“Say,” Malfoy,” Theo said suddenly. “My father’s been dropping hints of something big going on at Hogwarts this year but they’re keeping it from the Wizengamot—has your father heard anything from Fudge?”

Pansy and Blaise kept right on chatting, and no one looked Pansy’s way, as if they hadn’t all been kept abreast of her efforts to get information out of the Malfoys. Efforts that had resulted in evasion and wordplay Harry hadn’t known the blond was clever enough to pull off.

“He has,” Malfoy said irritably, “but he’s sworn me to secrecy on the matter. It’ll come up at the start-of-term feast, I reckon… I hope you all have dress robes, that’s all I can say.”

“We do,” Daphne said.

Harry looked at Theo with a smirk. “So _that’s_ what that horrendous thing of Weasley’s is for. I wondered why he’d bothered to pack dress robes…”

“They’re that bad?” Malfoy said, looking like Christmas had come early.

Pansy snickered. “They might have looked fashionable on a witch three hundred years ago.”

Malfoy grinned maliciously and moved a rook.

Gradually, the previous conversations reasserted themselves. Harry, Theo, Daphne, and Justin kept working on their runes.

“What did you mean, look out for Lovegood?” Malfoy said in a low voice. Harry heard mostly because he was sitting right next to the other boy. It was Malfoy’s first foray into conversation.

Hermione moved a bishop without looking up. “Her House mates steal her things. They hid her trunk; other times they’ll take her shoes or school books.”

“Her own _House?”_ Malfoy said disbelievingly. Harry understood that. Whatever else Malfoy did or did not live up to of Slytherin traits, House unity was a value the blond could handle. He’d never do a thing to weaken Slytherin’s reputation in public, like force a fellow classmate to go out barefoot by stealing their shoes.

Confident that Hermione could handle him, Harry went back to the ongoing debate about runes. Daphne and Justin had both made some fascinating progress on arithmancy, while Harry and Theo were focusing more on the runes after their independent study with Babbling the previous term, and combining their work of the last few weeks was definitely getting them somewhere.

Malfoy broke off when the train neared Hogwarts, saying that Crabbe and Goyle would be looking for him. “I’d like to finish our game, Granger,” he said. “Library?”

Hermione raised her eyebrows and looked him dead in the eyes. “I thought you didn’t like Mudbloods.”

Pansy coughed. Blaise and Theo were smirking and obviously enjoying the show.

“Blood matters,” Malfoy said stiffly. “Ability matters more.”

Miniscule reactions from Daphne, Theo, and Pansy.

“And you actually bother with cultural awareness,” Malfoy said, sounding more like his usual arrogant self. “You, too, Finch-Fletchley. Don’t think I’d be here if you were wearing those horrid ‘jeans’.” He sneered one last time, nodded to Harry, and stalked out, slamming the compartment door behind him.

“Okay,” Pansy said. “ _What?”_

Daphne eyed Hermione with a clever gleam in her eyes and a smirk on her lips. “Chess, Hermione?”

“Shut it, Daphne,” Hermione grumbled. “He asked for a game and I fully intend to challenge Ronald next week in the Gryffindor chess games—there’s an informal Friday night chess club in the common room.”

“Nice parting shot,” Blaise said with a brilliant grin.

Hermione’s cheeks pinked and she grinned back. “I thought so.”

 

Horrific rain lashed the platform when they clambered out of the train. Harry hauled a waterproof cloak out of his bag and slung it around his shoulders, but it didn’t have a hood, and in less than a minute his hair was as soaked as if he’d just climbed out of the shower. Daphne taught them all an umbrella charm her mother picked up in America and they all held their wands straight up as they hurried for the carriages.

Harry ended up sharing one with Theo, Neville, and Pansy.

“Drying charms,” Neville said. “Please.”

Smirking, Theo set to work—he was best at charms, though Harry was catching up. Harry laid hands one by one on everyone’s shoulders and cast short-lived wandless warmth charms on them. Eriss wriggled around his waist when he did his own robes and hissed her appreciation for the warmth.

“Does she want out?” Pansy said, nodding at the bulge around Harry’s stomach that was only noticeable if you knew what to look for or had some kind of device charmed to see through Notice-Me-Not charms.

Harry hissed a quick question, and then grinned at the emphatic _“no”_ that he got in return. “She’s warm in there,” he said, laying a hand gently along Eriss’ back through his robe. “If I tried to make her come out she might bite me… and believe me, it’s not fun.”

“You’ve got antivenin, right?” Theo said.

“Always.”

“Good,” Neville muttered. “Just in case I, I dunno, trip and step on her or something.”

“You’re not really clumsy, Neville,” Pansy said dismissively. “You just need more confidence.”

Harry met Theo’s eyes and knew they were both thinking something along the lines of _which he’ll get as soon as he trounces Weasley in a duel._

Usually, it took some time for the crowd to drift from the carriages into the entrance hall, but when Harry hauled the door open against the wind, the people in the carriages ahead of their were already hurrying up the steps to the doors. He, Neville, Pansy, and Theo jumped down and ran inside, wands held upright. The translucent umbrellas made of magic kept the worst of the rain off but wind still shoved it sideways into their faces and they were soaked again when they got into the school.

“If this keeps up, the lake’s going to overflow,” Neville complained.

“Theo, if this ruins my hair, I will blame _you_ for not being quick enough with those charms,” Pansy said in a deadly voice.

“Oh no,” Theo said, already setting his wand in motion, “not the hair—”

 _“Look up,”_ Eriss warned suddenly—

Harry looked up just in time to snap his wand into the air and fire off a wordless, reflexive _protego_. The shield shimmered briefly over his head just in time to deflect a large red water balloon into a nearby group of Ravenclaws.

“Peeves!” Pansy yelled at the poltergeist. “I _will_ set the Baron on you!”

Peeves made a rude sound but zoomed off to aim his water balloons at less risky targets.

“Good one,” Theo said. “Have you ever figured out why Peeves is so scared of him?”

“Nope,” Pansy said gloomily. “I do know the Baron and the Gray Lady are linked somehow. Haven’t quite worked out the story yet… Neville, are you all right?”

“Er—yes,” Neville said. “I, um, that’s the first time I’ve seen Peeves listen to a student.”

“He listens to the twins sometimes,” Harry said. “Generally when doing so will cause more mayhem than not. Plus they have some kind of spell that half-deflates him for a little bit. Won’t tell me what it is. Let’s get inside before he forgets and comes back for round two.”

Slipping and sliding on the doused marble, the four of them joined the flow of bedraggled students into the Great Hall. Neville saved and headed over to the Gryffindor table, where Hermione was sitting a bit apart from the others with her nose in a book. Harry stood on tiptoe so he could see Neville sit down across from her and Hermione set the book aside and look up. Jules greeted Neville civilly, if condescendingly, and Dean seemed like he was actually being decent. Ronald ignored both of Harry’s friends.

“Weasley’s going to be a problem this year,” Harry said in a low voice. “He’s pissed I’m on better terms with Jules right now.”

“How d’you know?” Pansy said, sneaking a glance over her shoulder.

Harry sat down at the Slytherin table in the area roughly in the middle that was mostly fourth-years, with his back to the wall so he could see the rest of the Hall. “Twins told me.”

“Useful.” Pansy leaned forward on the table and started watching the Ravenclaws and Slytherins in sight. This was her usual start-of-term session of trying to figure out who had gotten together, broken up, gotten together and broken up, had a fight, or hooked up over the summer. It was a little creepy how successful she could be and Harry knew she didn’t like talking during this, so he left her alone.

Noah Bole leaned around Jordan Harper and grinned at Harry and Theo. He was a shorter, smudgier version of his brother Alton, sixth year Slytherin Beater, whose greatest ambition in life was to become the best firework craftsman in the world. The up side of his ambition was some really cool fireworks in the Slytherin dorms during Quidditch after-parties. The down side was the scorch marks. “Hey, Harry, how was your summer with an escaped convict?”

“Oh, the usual,” Harry said, “complicated legal battles, bickering with my estranged father, rescuing his flying motorcycle from the oaf… how’s yours?”

“Boring compared to yours,” Noah said.

Jordan snorted and tossed her perfectly curled brown hair over her shoulder. “Everyone’s summer is going to sound boring compared to his.”

“Not Fred and George’s,” Theo said. “From what I gather they’ve been fighting with nearly every member of their family all summer.”

A little farther down the table, Hestia and Flora, sitting with the sixth years, caught Harry’s eye. Flora nodded slightly and Hestia favored him with a slight smile of greeting. Harry returned both a smile and a nod.

“So,” Anita Strickland said, leaning across the table conspiratorially. She winked at Harry. “Dueling club. We doing it this year?”

“Seven o’clock Fridays, Knights Room?” Harry said.

Theo grinned wickedly. “I’ll brush up on my hexes.”

“Like any of you lot let yourselves get out of practice over the summers,” Noah said, rolling his eyes.

Harry and Theo pasted matching innocent expressions on in a heartbeat. “I’ve no idea what you could be referring to,” Harry said.

“None whatsoever,” Theo added.

Their fifth year friends laughed.

Daphne and Blaise flung themselves into seats across the table from Harry, Theo, and Pansy, both looking extremely irritated. “Er,” Harry said.

“Shared a carriage with Macmillan and Bones,” Blaise said.

Theo winced. “Ouch.”

Daphne tapped her wand menacingly on the table and shot a vicious glare over her shoulder in the direction of the two Hufflepuffs, who Harry could just see sitting down at their own table. “One more comment about where our parents were the night of the World Cup and they’d have been belly up in the Black Lake.”

 _“Daphne,”_ Blaise said. “Not here.”

Harry turned a slight glare on her to back Blaise up. Death threats were all very well and good, and he knew Daphne was one hundred percent willing and able to carry them out, but slinging them around in the Great Hall was risky.

“Wonder who the new Defense teacher is,” Theo mused.

The staff table, when Harry glanced over, did indeed contain two empty seats. One was probably for McGonagall, who he’d last seen yelling impotently at Peeves and would have to go fetch the firsties. The other would presumably be filled by the new Defense teacher when they ever showed up.

If they ever showed up.

“Wonder if we’re just not having Defense this year,” Blaise said.

“Oh no,” Daphne said, perfectly deadpan. “Whatever shall we do?”

Snape caught Harry looking and gave him the barest nod.

Well then.

Harry nodded back, deeper and more respectfully but still subtle.

Malfoy, Bulstrode, Crabbe, and Goyle were the last of the fourth-year Slytherins to trudge into the Great Hall, sopping wet and furious about it. Malfoy reminded Harry of nothing so much as a housecat that had fallen in a duck pond and loathed the indignity as he slouched into a seat on the other side of Pansy from Harry. “Horrid system,” he snarled. “Honestly, this rain—”

“Stop complaining and cast a drying charm,” Daphne hissed. Macmillan and Bones seemed to have destroyed her patience for idiots, which was thin even on a good day.

Malfoy sneered back at her but, shockingly, did as she said and cut the complaining back to a minimum.

Harry sat back on the bench and let the increasing volume of the Great Hall wash over him. It was always a relief to be back here even though he couldn’t drop his guard with the entire school around. Hogwarts was magic and safety and opportunity and his heart ached with love for the school that he knew for sure he’d never felt for another human being.

This year was going to be great. Quidditch after-practice sessions in the team lounge were a great place to pick up random dark spells, Harry had the Black Library, Theo, Daphne, Pansy, and Blaise’s libraries to draw from, the Chamber of Secrets library to study, plenty of free time that would result from being ahead of the curriculum in nearly all his classes, dueling club—he was planning to start introducing Hermione, Neville, Justin, Fred, and George to the sessions with just the Slytherins from Harry’s year where they ignored what spells were legal and what weren’t—and whatever secret Malfoy couldn’t tell him to look forward to.

Daphne, Pansy, and Malfoy’s spirited argument about the latest fashion trends out of Italy and Moscow was interrupted by the doors creaking open. Harry quieted Pansy with an elbow and Daphne with a look.

McGonagall appeared, leading a line of firsties up the center aisle between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. All fifty or so new students looked as wet as if they’d swum across the lake instead of riding in boats. A tiny, squeaky version of Colin Creevey trailed at the end of the line, wrapped in Hagrid’s giant moleskin coat and drawing snickers from most of the Slytherins.

Harry half-listened to the Sorting Hat’s song and the Sorting itself. He did rouse himself to smile at the incoming first years and welcome them to Slytherin House. The wide-eyed group sat at the end of the table nearest the staff table and several of them were looking nervously at their older House mates.

“Pansy,” Harry muttered. “How much control have you and Natalie got over the second years?”

“A good amount,” Pansy replied, voice just as low. “Romilda’s a great kid and Astoria worships the ground Ginny Weasley walks on, why?”

“Get the second years to mingle with the firsties and be nice and welcoming,” Harry said. “They look terrified. I’m assuming the Slytherin prejudice is making the rounds yet again.”

Pansy frowned. “Point taken. One sec.”

She leaned back to reach around Malfoy and prod Finn Sullivan on the shoulder. The sandy-haired prankster of the third years raised an eyebrow. Harry couldn’t hear Pansy’s hissed instructions but Finn nodded, and a few seconds later Natalie had slipped off the bench and crept over. She and Pansy had a quick whispered conference and then Natalie returned to her seat.

“Done,” Pansy muttered.

Harry tracked the message’s progress down the table as Mariah Larkspur went to Hufflepuff. Astoria, so much more cheerful than her older sister, and Romilda Vane, a girl with the potential to be as cunning as Salazar himself, quickly rallied the second years into shifting and shuffling down the table so they were mixed in with the firsties. Between Astoria’s infectious smile and Romilda’s quiet, biting humor and their friend Vasily Sitch’s easy manner, the first years soon lost the terrified, overwhelmed look.

“Nice, Potter,” Malfoy muttered. “You too, Parkinson.”

He scowled as he said it, but Harry just smirked at his old rival.

Fred and George had quit booing Slytherin sortings after Harry’s first year, but others had taken up the mantle. He got sick of it the fourth time it happened and started memorizing names. Toby Pritchard and Ben Creed, Gryffindor fifth years. Seamus Finnegan. _Bastard._ Two Ravenclaw sixth years Pansy identified as Lucretia Howe and Marion Flesher.

“Planning something?” Theo said, smirking.

Harry raised an eyebrow and stayed silent.

Across the table, Blaise leaned forward and kept his voice low. “Isn’t he always?”

With “Whitby, Kevin!” going to Hufflepuff, Mcgonagall rolled up her list of names and retreated to her seat at the staff table. There was still no new Defense teacher.

Dumbledore got to his feet with a magnanimous smile.

Theo nudged Harry under the table and then mimed the wand motion for the blinding curse he’d shot at Lupin’s werewolf form the year before. Harry kept his face devoid of amusement.

“I have only two words for you,” Dumbledore announced. “Tuck in!”

“Finally,” Crabbe grunted, as the tables were quite suddenly groaning under the weight of the food that covered them.

Harry rolled his eyes and started in on the meal. It was the first summer he could remember during which he’d had enough to eat every single day, and the Hogwarts meal was still precious—it still carried the memory-magic of that first day, all the promise that Hogwarts was to him.

When the feast had been demolished (Crabbe and Goyle were still cramming food into their mouths while Malfoy looked at them with despair and Bulstrode laughed at the both of them) Dumbledore stood up again and lifted his arms for everyone’s attention.

“Now that we are all fed and watered,” he said, “I have a few announcements to make.”

“What are we, hippogriffs?” Theo snarled.

Pansy snorted. “Fed and watered my ass.”

“Be _ladylike_ ,” Daphne said with such simpering sweetness that they all had to choke on smiles and laughter.

“Mr. Filch has informed me that the list of forbidden items has been extended to include Screaming Yo-yos, Fanged Frisbees, and Ever-Bashing Boomerangs. The full list comprises some four hundred and thirty-seven items, I believe, and can be viewed in Mr. Filch’s office, if anyone would like to check it.”

“As if we’d go into the Squib’s office,” Malfoy muttered. “Probably infested with rats.”

For once, Harry actually agreed with him.

“As ever, I would like to remind you that the forest on the grounds is out-of-bounds to students, as is the village of Hogsmeade to all below third year.

“It is also my painful duty to inform you that the Inter-house Quidditch Cup will not be taking place this year.”

The Great Hall burst into uproarious protest but Harry heard very little of it, staring at the staff table with rigid composure. They were doing _what_ now?

Fred and George were out of their seats, yelling in fury; the members of every single House team were in agreement for the first time in Harry’s memory. Alton Bole was ashen-faced and Miles Bletchley had broken his plate when he slammed his fist down on the table. They were seventh years, and this should have been their last season.

Harry’s ears started working again just in time to catch the rest of Dumbledore’s speech.

“—event that will be taking place starting on October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers’ time and energy—and I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. It is my great pleasure to announce that this year at Hogwarts—”

A flash of lightning across the charmed ceiling lit up the Great Hall for a split second, followed by a deafening roll of thunder that cut Dumbledore off. Harry blinked—

There was now a man standing in the now-open doors of the hall.

He was shrouded in a black traveling cloak that shone with rain, and leaning upon a gnarled staff. The man shoved his hood back off his head, shook out a mane of grizzled silver hair, and started walking up to the staff table. Every other step went _clunk_ , _clunk, clunk_ across the flagstones.

As he passed the mid-point of the hall, the man didn’t look over, but Harry got the sudden and distinct sense that he was being watched, and intently. He narrowed his eyes at the side of the man’s head and then looked up at the staff table.

The professors were a mixed bag of reactions. Snape was, as usual, impassive; Sprout and McGonagall both looked irritated at the delay in getting to their beds; Flitwick paid no attention at all. Dumbledore simply stood behind his lectern, smiling benevolently and emanating patience.

The newcomer clunked up to Dumbledore’s side, stopped, and turned to face the hall.

Another flash of lightning threw his face into sharp relief. Harry cocked his head, intrigued. It was a face that could have been crafted by something that had seen a rough stone carving of a human face, long ago, something that was none too skilled with a chisel, but with only that rough memory to go off of had done its best anyway. Part of his nose was missing, his mouth looked like a diagonal slash, and scars covered every inch of skin. But the worst part was his eyes—one was small, dark, and beady, and the other was large, round, electric blue, and moving completely independently of its natural partner.

“Mad-Eye Moody,” Theo hissed, so softly Harry almost didn’t hear him.

Dumbledore shook the man’s hand, muttering words Harry couldn’t hear from the middle of the Slytherin table, and directed him to the empty seat at the right of Dumbledore’s chair.

“We’ve got Mad-Eye Moody as our new Defense teacher,” Pansy muttered.

She wasn’t the only one to react. A storm of whispers was overtaking the silence that had held during Moody’s entire journey up to the staff table. Harry glanced quickly up and down the Slytherin table; his House mates’ faces were as difficult to read as ever but a number of them, particularly the older set, looked unhappy. The Carrows, Bletchley, the Boles, Pucey, Celesta Fawley, Finn, Evalyn, and Astoria in particular. His friends continued the trend: Pansy and Daphne shared an uncertain glance; Theo’s eyes darkened in a way you’d only recognize if you really knew him; Malfoy bit the inside of his cheek in an unconscious tell.

Probably an Auror, then. Harry hadn’t gone three years in Slytherin without figuring out who among his classmates had families with Death Eater ties.

The question was if they were worried about Moody judging them for those ties, or if they disliked the man for fighting against a cause they sympathized with.

“May I introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?” Dumbledore said, beaming like this was entirely normal. Behind him, Moody sniffed at a bit of sausage with what was left of his nose and then started eating. “Professor Alastor Moody, retired Auror.”

Dumbledore and Hagrid clapped, but they both stopped after no one else joined in. Most of the students seemed too nervous or taken aback to applaud. Moody didn’t seem to notice or care, and kept right on eating. And drinking from a hip flask, for some reason.

“As I was saying,” Dumbledore said, “this year we will have the honor of hosting a very exciting event, one that has not been held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be held at Hogwarts this year.”

“You’re JOKING!” Fred bellowed from the Gryffindor table. He set off a wave of shouts and excited conversation that swept over the Hall.

Harry looked at his friends. Theo and Pansy had actually let their mouths fall open; even Daphne and Blaise had slipped up and shown their shock. Malfoy looked smug.

“You knew,” Harry said to him. “This is the secret, isn’t it?”

“See why there was an oath involved, Potter?” Malfoy said.

Harry shot him the V and turned back to Dumbledore.

“The Triwizard Tournament… well, some of you will not know what this tournament involves, so I hope those of you who _do_ know will forgive a short explanation, and allow your attention to wander freely.

“The Triwizard Tournament was first established some seven hundred years ago as a friendly competition between the three largest European schools of wizardry: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. A champion was selected to represent each school, and the three champions competed in three magical tasks. The schools took it in turns to host the tournament once every five years, and it was generally agreed to be a most excellent way of establishing ties between young witches and wizards of different nationalities—until, that is, the death toll mounted so high that the tournament was discontinued.”

“Charming,” Harry muttered.

Theo snorted. “You’ve no idea. Look at all these idiots, all excited to risk their lives…”

“Wouldn’t you be?” Malfoy said. “All the glory…”

“At the chance of death? No, thanks.”

Blaise nodded agreement. “I’ve read the reports of the old Tournaments. There was one where they didn’t have a victor because all three Champions died in the third task. It’s ridiculous. Maybe if I was a seventh year, and had known it was coming and spent years studying with private tutors.”

“I would,” Daphne said. “Under those circumstances, mind. Not like this when no one’s had any idea.”

Theo was right; most of the students in the Great Hall didn’t share Harry’s reaction. Most of Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, and quite a lot of the Ravenclaws, were whispering excitedly.

“There have been several attempts over the centuries to reinstate the tournament, none of which has been very successful. However, our own Departments of International Magical Cooperation and Magical Games and Sports have decided the time is right for another attempt. We have worked hard over the summer to ensure that this time no champion will find himself or herself in mortal danger.

“The heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving with their short list of contenders in October, and the selection of the three champions will take place at Halloween.  An impartial judge will decide which students are most worthy to compete for the Triwizard Cup, the glory of their school, and one thousand galleons of personal prize money.”

That upped the tension even more. At every table, Harry could see people clearly envisioning themselves the Hogwarts champion. He could admit it was tempting—fame, glory, renown, a chance to make a name for himself and stand out as Hadrian and not a Potter, not James Potter’s estranged Heir—

But he was only fourteen and that would be really, really stupid, especially since the best tools in his arsenal were illegal and would definitely be frowned upon if he used them in front of government officials from three countries.

“Eager though I know all of you will be to bring the Triwizard Cup to Hogwarts,” he said, “the Heads of the participating schools, along with the Ministry of Magic, have agreed to impose an age restriction on contenders this year only students who are of age—that is to say 17 years or older—will be allowed to put forward their names for consideration. This—” Dumbledore raised his voice to be heard over the noises of outrage this elicited— “is a measure we feel is necessary, given that the tournament tasks will still be difficult and dangerous, at whatever precautions we take, and it is highly unlikely that students below sixth and seventh year will be able to cope with them. I will personally be ensuring that no underage student hoodwinks our impartial judge into making them Hogwarts champion.” His eyes twinkled in that creepy and probably magic-faked way at the Weasley twins, who both looked mutinous. “I therefore beg you not to waste your time submitting yourself if you are under seventeen.”

“The delegations from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons will be arriving in October and remaining with us for the greater part of this year. I know that you will all extend every courtesy to our foreign guests while they’re with us, and will give your wholehearted support to the Hogwarts champion when he or she is selected. And now, it is late, and I know how important it is to you all to be alert and rusted as you enter your lessons tomorrow morning. Bedtime! Chop chop!”

“I’ll chop chop his beard right off,” Daphne hissed.

The Slytherins got to their feet with restrained manners, unlike the boisterous and obnoxious crowd flooding away from Gryffindor and Hufflepuff. Even the Ravenclaws were chattering like a flock of birds. Harry knew they’d have the records of the Triwizard Tournament spread out across the floor of their common room inside twenty minutes all the way back to its founding, right next to a group overseeing the collection of all rumors or facts anyone remembered about Alastor “Mad-Eye” Moody.

Seventh years Cassiopeia Warrington and Miles Bletchley were both talking animatedly about entering as they drifted down to the dungeons. Harry let Theo and Blaise and Pansy chatter; he was busy eavesdropping and collecting snatches of conversation from the group around him.

“Ashwinder,” someone said up ahead, and the hidden entrance slid open. Harry smiled a little as he crossed the threshold and felt the Slytherin wards skate over his skin. This, right here, was his first home.

“Usual spot?” Theo said.

“Sure, I’d love to hear Fawley and Owens light into the firsties,” Blaise said, referencing the current fifth year prefects.

Theo glanced at Harry, who shrugged, so they drifted over to the cluster of sofas by the window into the Black Lake their group had favored since second year.

The common room slowly filled up. All six prefects—fifth years Celesta Fawley and Brendan Owens, sixth years Hestia Carrow and Adrian Pucey, and seventh years Alton Bole and Cassie Warrington—gave the first years the usual speech by the hearth but no one was really paying attention. It felt like the whole House was piled into the common room talking and mingling. They usually spent the first evening catching up around the dorms with acquaintances unseen over the summer, but this was more excitement than usual.

After fifteen minutes of sitting and digesting his large dinner, Harry levered himself to his feet. It was too good an opportunity to network to pass up. “Going to go check in with a few people,” he said shortly.

Pansy joined him without a word.

The pair of them drifted around the room, catching up with Noah, Anita, and Jordan from the fifth years, and wishing Warrington good luck with the Tournament. Harry caught sight of Miles, Alton, Peregrine, Adrian, Hestia, Flora, and Vickie Chapman sitting in a corner; he and Pansy sat down with them and then didn’t get up for thirty minutes. Alton, Adrian, and Flora in particular were still cool towards Harry, but the rest of them respected his Quidditch skill and his wandwork and Hestia owed him for arranging Arithmancy tutoring the previous year. It was a surprisingly fun group.

When the group began to split up and go to bed—the sixth and seventh years knew they’d have loads of homework right away—Harry and Pansy moved again, this time to where Ginny, Astoria, Natalie, Evalyn, Alex, Finn, Vasily, and Romilda were clustered on the floor in a giant pile of pillows. Normally someone would’ve scolded them for the childishness but not, it seemed, in the chaotic and excited atmosphere.

He and Pansy flopped down with the others. Daphne and Theo joined them almost immediately. “Blaise is playing Malfoy,” Theo said with a smirk, “and winning,” and Harry glanced over and enjoyed the irritated look on Malfoy’s face.

“So,” Natalie said, grinning in her infectious way that implied only she and her chosen few were in on some grand secret. “Let’s see if I’ve got this. Baddock, Redwood, Pym, Butler, and Pritchard?”

This was when Harry realized his younger friends had collected a set of the new firsties and were talking to them. He examined the first-years’ faces: shiny, anxious, nervous, excited, or blank by turns, all of them clearly exhausted and overwhelmed and delighted by this new experience.

“Pritchard,” Theo said. “Haven’t you got a brother in Gryffindor?”

Harry raised one slight eyebrow. Toby Pritchard had been jeering at Slytherin sortings, and he was a notorious bigot and bully. Interesting.

The boy in question, a short and shrimpy kid with tan skin and wildly curly brown hair, scowled. “Don’t remind me.”

“Is he the odd one out in your family, or you?” Finn said, smirking at the Pritchard kid.

“…me,” Pritchard admitted.

Vasily lay back on a pillow and stretched out one foot, nudging Pritchard’s let. “It’s okay, you’re ours now. Slytherin looks after its own.”

Ginny shot him a friendly grin. “And you’re far from the only odd Sorting,” she said. “First Weasley in anyone’s memory to be in Slytherin.”

“And you’ve got Hadrian Potter,” Astoria put in.

Natalie snickered. “I don’t know which of those Sortings rocked Hogwarts worse.”

“Probably mine,” Harry drawled, aware of the awed and nervous looks on the firsties’ faces. What had the second years been _saying_ about him? Or did he just have an intimidating air? “Given my brother’s spectacularly bad reaction.”

“You’ve only got the one nasty brother,” Ginny argued. “I had to deal with two, _plus_ my mum.”

“Your sibling’s aren’t famous,” Pansy retorted.

Ginny smirked. “True. I’ll take my relative obscurity, thanks.”

“Is—is it true your father sent you a Howler?” a stocky blond girl asked. Harry thought he remembered her name as Lilian Pym.

“No,” he said, and winked at her with his charm turned up. “But he did completely ignore me all first term… and let’s just say I haven’t been to my ancestral home over the holidays.”

Which reminded him, he needed to talk to Theo about Yule, since for the first time Harry would be leaving school over the holidays and he didn’t know what Sirius would expect. Gifts seemed to be a part of Yule too, since all his pureblood friends whose families practiced the old rites sent them out, but beyond that…

“Mine prob’ly will,” Pritchard said gloomily.

Pansy shrugged. “Blaise knows a spell that’ll freeze a Howler long enough for you to sneak it into your bag and go to the bathroom so no one hears it go off. I’ll have him aim it down at you next morning if we see you get one.”

“Er—thanks,” Pritchard said suspiciously. Clearly he’d heard some nasty things about Slytherin from his family.

“Slytherin looks after its own,” Alex Rowle said softly. He was a quiet boy, lean as a whip and just as quick with his reflexes; he hated talking in public and wanted to be a Healer but he was far from unskilled with a wand. Harry had always rather liked shy, reserved, ambitious Alex. Not least for moments like this. When he spoke, people listened.

Graham Pritchard relaxed a bit, and grinned.

“What’s a Howler?” the other first-year girl said innocently.

Harry felt more than saw the sudden tension from the group. Maybe he ought to play a bigger role here; usually he preferred to let Theo or Pansy talk while he watched, but this—

“An angry letter,” Ginny said easily. “Comes in a red envelope and when you open it, it screams at you. If you don’t open it, it basically explodes, and the longer you wait, the louder it gets.”

“Fun,” the girl muttered.

Astoria and Romilda swapped a narrow-eyed glance. Vasily Sitch didn’t seem to care what was going on, but Harry suspected that was an act.

“Are you Muggle-born?” the second of the three boys—Baddock—said suspiciously.

The girl frowned. “Yeah, my parents are pilots, why?”

“A Mudblood in Slytherin?” Lilian Pym said incredulously.

The nameless girl shrank back.

Harry shifted slightly. He didn’t miss Theo’s wince or the way Blaise, Pansy, Evalyn, and Alex all flicked snake-quick uncomfortable glances his way. Not because they were afraid he’d be offended. They were all clever enough to read the shift in his body language, and know what it meant.

“Blood matters,” he said in a soft voice, focusing on the firsties with the damper on his eyes completely dropped. “Ability matters more. My mother was a Mudblood, Miss Pym, and she collected more NEWTs than anyone with such a narrow mind as yours is ever likely to see. The Dark Lord himself tried to recruit her. I’d think if a talented Muggle-born is good enough for him, you can get over having one in your class, hmmm?”

By the end of his brief intervention, and despite his casual tone, all five of them were cringing back, Pym most of all but Baddock close behind. “Y-yes,” Pym said, eyes wide as saucers. “I’m… sorry.”

Harry smiled gently. The girl’s fear intensified. “I’m not the one you should be apologizing to, Miss Pym.”

“Sorry, er, Veronica, right? Veronica Butler?”

“Uh… thanks,” Veronica Butler said.

Harry settled back against the pillows he was sitting on like nothing had happened and projected an air of absolute relaxed confidence.

“You’re a little scary sometimes,” Pansy muttered next to him.

“You wouldn’t be friends with me, otherwise,” Harry said breezily. He could completely understand Theo’s whole point about Muggle-borns needing to integrate. In fact, he agreed with it—his own experience with the Dursleys proved pretty thoroughly that the Muggle world let children slip through the cracks and that too much contact between their worlds was dangerous for both sides. But—Hermione. Justin. His mum. He wasn’t about to let people get ostracized for something they couldn’t help.

Fortunately, between Natalie, Astoria, and Vasily, the conversation picked back up again. Pansy jumped in to talk about wizarding fashion trends. Harry half-listened; he was busy thinking.

Celesta Fawley stalked over at nine to tell them to pack the firsties off to bed. Harry slipped away from the group and watched…

Veronica Butler hung back a bit from the others. Malcolm Baddock had seemed to get over his shock at a Muggle-born in Slytherin and Graham Pritchard, from a Gryffindor or Hufflepuff family, obviously didn’t care much one way or the other, and Butler had been friendly with them for the rest of the conversation. Redwood, the third boy, barely spoke a word the whole time but he alone hadn’t flinched when Butler announced she was Muggle-born. There was tension between the two girls, though, and it wasn’t good to be on bad terms with someone who shared your dorm.

“Butler,” Harry said quietly, leaning up against a bookshelf.

She looked up, half-flinched, and checked her path to the dorms. “Er… Potter, right?”

“That’s right,” Harry said, not smiling. This wasn’t a casual talk and he wasn’t trying to put her at ease.

“Sorry. Still trying to get the names down,” she said. “Um…”

“First step: don’t do that,” Harry said.

Butler blinked. “What?”

“Or that.” He sighed. “Come here, you’re being obvious.”

Hesitantly, Butler followed him into a slight niche by one of the bookshelves, where the dorms were shadowed and people wouldn’t notice them.

“No _um_ s,” Harry said. “No _er_ , no _uh_ , no _wait_ or _what_ if you can help it. Think before you speak and project confidence, not uncertainty. Uncertainty when speaking indicates uncertainty in your head and Slytherins will take that as a weakness. You’ve got to always hide your emotions when you’re around people you don’t know well and never react or speak without thinking.”

“Why d’you care?” Butler demanded mulishly. “And why should I listen to you?”

Harry sneered at her. “Want to have someone call you Mudblood again? If you don’t know what that slur means, there’s a bunch of Muggle words that compare that your mum would probably wash your mouth out for using.”

Butler’s eyes widened. “Is it like… the N word?”

“Comparable,” Harry said.

“Oh,” she said softly, crumpling a bit.

“Look at me,” Harry demanded. When she’d sniffed and looked up, he went on. “I won’t lie to you, Miss Butler. I had a hard enough time in this House as a sort-of halfblood from a Gryffindor family. It won’t be easy for you.”

“They said, on the train…” she whispered. “I didn’t believe it.”

“And you shouldn’t.”

She blinked in surprise.

Dammit, Harry didn’t like making speeches, didn’t like _talking_ if he could help it, but it seemed the girl needed a bit of a pep talk and he’d be damned if he watched his House reputation deteriorate further by letting the first Muggle-born Slytherin in years turn up ostracized on the first morning. “Slytherin House is an incredible place,” he said. “The best House, in my opinion, but obviously I’m biased. Remember what I said—blood matters, but ability matters more. Some people are going to assume you’re not as good as them because of your birth. Some people are idiots. Read ahead in your textbooks, practice magic on your own, treat being a witch and using magic like the incredible privilege it is. You’ve got to be better than them so they _can’t_ talk about you having Muggle parents. Make sense?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I mean yes. I’ll be better than them.”

Harry grinned at her and was pleased to see a hard glint come into her eyes. Good; this one had a fighter in her, underneath the weariness and uncertainty and shock. He’d let her rest if he could, let her ease into this and tell her this later, but she needed to hear it now. There was no time for half-truths and a slow transition.

“Good catch. Okay, point two: two of my best friends are Muggle-born. Justin Finch-Fletchley of Hufflepuff and Hermione Granger of Gryffindor. I’m going to find a time for you to sit down with them and they’re going to talk you through everything you need to know as a Muggle-born coming into this world. Let me guess; the pamphlet they handed you made it sound like you’re going to a slightly old-fashioned version of an English boarding school, and the culture is mostly the same?”

“Isn’t it?” Butler said. She was getting over her nervousness of him. “I mean, it’s English, the papers said admissions is only guaranteed to every magical student whose permanent residence is in the British Isles when they’re eleven…”

Harry nodded approvingly. “Good, you actually read the thing.”

“We were told to,” Butler said.

“You’d be surprised how many don’t bother,” Harry said. He’d learned that much from Justin. “Unfortunately, it’s not that simple. Have you heard stories of the cultural awareness issues of Japanese people coming to England or British people traveling to Japan, for example?”

“Yeah, my mum flies there sometimes, she’s told me some of the stories,” Butler said.

“Oh, thank Merlin, that makes my job easier. Okay.” Harry cocked his head, wondering how to put this. “Think of coming to Hogwarts like your mum going to Japan. You have to learn the culture here. It’s more different than you’d think. Off the top of my head, don’t raise your hand in class because professors will call on you if they want to hear from you and usually they have someone in mind when they ask a question, you’ll come off like a know-it-all otherwise. Don’t joke about going to prison. It’s a long story but to contain wizards you need some pretty nasty safeguards and going to prison is nothing to laugh about for wizarding children like it is for Muggles.” _Especially since some of our House mates have family in Azkaban._ “Say ‘thank Merlin’ or ‘by Merlin’ instead of ‘thank God’ if you can remember, call people by their last names until they invite you to do otherwise, wear your robes around the common room instead of Muggle casual clothes, and if you need help, you _will_ come to me or a prefect, all right?”

“Okay,” Butler said. “Potter.”

“You catch on quick.” He crossed his arms for emphasis. “Now, you’re going to go in there and be polite to Lilian Pym, no matter how bigoted and foolish she may have seemed earlier. Just as you can’t help growing up Muggle and not knowing anything about our culture yet, she can’t help having grown up with parents who taught her that prejudice. Instead of blaming her, work around it. Be polite. Make friends with the other girls. Sit with Graham Pritchard and Malcolm Baddock at breakfast if the other girls are all acting like her, I don’t care if you’re the only girl in the group. You can’t afford to be seen sitting alone.” _And Slytherin can’t afford to have you sitting alone_. “Like I said, it won’t be easy, but it can be done.”

“Hands down in class, read ahead, thank Merlin, jail is off-limits, use last names, robes not jeans, ask for help, and make friends with Slytherins,” she recited. “I can do that. The boys seemed okay.”

“You can make friends with other Houses,” Harry said. “Like I said, several of my best friends are in Hufflepuff or Gryffindor, and I’ve got several looser friends in Ravenclaw. Just make sure you’ve got Slytherin allies, too.”

Butler grinned cheekily. “Would you get in trouble for telling me all this?”

Harry smirked. “Hardly. First rule: House unity. I’d probably get a pat on the back for making sure you represent Slytherin well. Oh, and don’t be afraid to play dirty if you have to… just never get caught.”

“I have the rules,” she said, grinning. “My best friend and I had a code kind of like that…” Her face fell. “Only now I can’t write her, because of owl post…”

“Send your letters to your parents, and have them mail them to her without a return address,” Harry suggested.

Butler perked up. “Okay, I’ll do that. Thanks, Potter.”

She dashed off to the dorms, looking a lot more cheerful.

“I half-expected her to cry.”

Harry whipped around, one hand reaching for the holly wand in his holster—

It was only Hestia, if Hestia could ever be described as _only_ anything, neatly concealed in a nearby pocket of shadow.

“I checked around me,” Harry said, eyes narrowed.

“Should’ve used magic, Potter,” she said, smirking. “There’s a charm to detect Disillusionment Spells.”

“Duly noted, Carrow.”

Hestia stood up and walked over. Harry was briefly surprised to find he was exactly the same height as her now.

 “That was nicely done,” she said after a pause.

“Not planning for the little Mudblood to have some kind of nasty accident, are you?” Harry said coolly, one eyebrow raised. “Because I might… take offense.”

“Hardly,” Hestia said. “Ability over blood. As you said.” A calculating look. “I’ll give the girl a chance to prove herself… if I even bother to notice her, that is. She certainly seemed to have a spine.”

“She did,” Harry agreed. “Though if I recall, you weren’t too nice to little old half-blood me two years ago.”

“You know perfectly well why I didn’t like you, Potter, and it had nothing to do with blood.”

That’s true, it hadn’t. “And now?” Harry said.

Hestia cocked her head. “We’ll see.”

Harry watched her saunter away with the distinct feeling that he’d just learned something important, but not quite sure what it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically Wednesdays are my update day, so here you go, enjoy


	10. Mad-Eye Moody

The start of the school year, unfortunately, did not live up to its dramatic beginning. Harry found himself bored out of his mind the first few days in Herbology, collecting bubotuber pus, Transfiguration, where they were set to learn and write about skills and theory he’d taught himself a year ago, and Potions lecture, which was quite possibly the worst of the three—Harry had been studying this level of Potions theory and practice when he was _twelve_.

He tracked down Natalie and Astoria, the tone-setters for their year groups in Slytherin, and made it clear that if Veronica Butler was working at cultural integration people weren’t to call her Mudblood. Astoria took the words to heart and promptly did for Butler what Daphne had done for Hermione before the Lia Zabini’s wedding. Butler walked out of that three-hour ‘conversation’ in an abandoned room in the dungeons looking shell-shocked, but she came to Harry the next day and asked for a reading list that would help her figure out the wizarding world, and he happily loaned her seven books he’d found most useful on the subject. Hermione and Justin couldn’t find time to meet her but each wrote up a list of things they’d have found most helpful in first year, and Harry got them to Butler.

Pansy, Blaise, and Malfoy were in perfect agreement for once; the three complained in unison about Hagrid’s latest creation, something he called “blast-ended skrewts” that sounded to be illegal experimental hybrids. Harry washed his hands of the matter.

 

The only highlight came on the third day of term, when Ronald and Malfoy’s ongoing feud caused some metaphorical fireworks.

Harry, Daphne, and Theo were just leaving breakfast and heading up to Arithmancy when Malfoy’s sneering tones rang across the entrance hall. “Hey, Weasley! Check this out—your father’s in the paper!”

Theo shot Harry a sidelong look. “If we stay and watch, will we be late?”

“Probably,” Harry said.

“Worth it,” Daphne decided.

They slipped out of the steady flow of students climbing the staircase and hung back to watch.

“What?” Ronald said angrily. Jules and Finnegan backed him up.

Malfoy grinned maliciously. “Look at this,” he said, brandishing his copy of the Daily Prophet.

Harry’s crew all passed Blaise and Pansy’s subscriptions around over breakfast and often talked about whatever was most interesting from the episode in question, so he and Theo and Daphne had already read this. He winked at Malfoy over Weasley’s shoulder and settled into watch the show.

Seemingly galvanized by Harry’s support, Malfoy’s evil grin widened, and he started reading from the paper.

Harry smirked to himself and settled back as a crowd gathered and Jules and Finnegans’ shoulders tightened and the back of Ronald’s neck got redder and redder. It was a delightfully nasty bite at Arthur Weasley by Rita Skeeter, who seemed able to spin anything about anyone into either glowing praise or vicious indictment. Harry had asked Ginny about it, to get the facts, since he didn’t trust government-controlled press outlets like the Prophet. She not only confirmed the article’s claims that Mr. Weasley had rushed to Alastor Moody’s house so he could get the man off on a minor misuse of Muggle artifacts charge, but that Dumbledore himself had written right before the Weasleys left for the train to confirm that Arthur was handling it. She also added some fascinating tidbits about Moody—apparently he was a trigger-happy paranoid nut job, and that was using some of the more flattering language she’d overheard from her father’s Ministry colleagues.

Harry related this, in a whisper, to Theo and Daphne, while Malfoy gleefully read out the article in a ringing voice.

“Look at Weasley, he’s tomato-colored,” Daphne whispered delightedly.

Ronald was shaking by the time Malfoy finished. “Had your fun, Malfoy?” he snarled.

“Oh, absolutely,” Malfoy agreed, still smiling. “I just thought you might like to hear, you know… your family gets so little renown… and did you catch Skeeter misspelling your father’s name? Such a shame, I’d write to the Prophet if it was me, file a protest…”

“Well, he’s trying for some subtlety,” Theo muttered. “Plenty for Weasley to react to…”

Surprisingly, it was Jules who responded, while Dean held both Ronald and Finnegan by the arm. “At least his family’s in there for trying to help a friend, Malfoy,” he scoffed. “Whenever yours is in the paper, it’s because of some corrupt donation your father’s made, and your mother always looks like she’s got dung under her nose. Does she always do that, or is it just when she’s ‘round the rest of you Malfoys?”

Malfoy’s expression got ugly. “Don’t talk about my mother, Potter,” he spat. “At least she managed not to get herself _killed_.”

Oh, shit.

Jules drew his wand with and incoherent shout—it was clear he’d been taking dueling lessons over the summer and Malfoy hadn’t; Jules was much faster on the draw—he fired off a hex that Malfoy barely dodged—someone screamed—Malfoy responded but Jules blocked it—

“ _Expelliarmus duo!”_

Both boys’ wands shot out of their hands and were plucked from the air by Mad-Eye Moody.

Theo stepped back a half-step, putting Harry and Daphne in between him and Mad-Eye.

“He drew first!” Malfoy protested.

“What are you, three?” Moody said. For just a second, his expression looked… _wrong_ for his face, but then it smoothed out into a sneer that looked normal. “’He drew first’—I heard you provoke him!”

He aimed his wand again.

There was a loud _BANG_ , and then, where Malfoy had been standing, appeared a white ferret.

Several people screamed.

Moody tossed Jules’ wand back. “Did he get you?”

“No,” Jules said, “missed.”

“LEAVE IT!” Moody bellowed.

Jules jumped. “Er—”

Harry, looking past them, saw what Moody meant—Crabbe had been trying to pick up the ferret.

“Turn him back?” Theo muttered.

“Undo a teacher’s spellwork?” Harry replied. “Even if I could—and this is Moody, so I doubt it—that’d just make him focus on me. I don’t like Malfoy that much.”

Daphne shook her head. “Yeah, stay out of this one.”

Moody began to limp over to Crabbe, Goyle, Bulstrode, and the ferret, which gave a terrified squeak and bolted off into the dungeons to gales of laughter.

“OH NO YOU DON’T!” Moody bellowed, and aimed his wand again—

Malfoy the ferret bounced ten feet in the air, fell to the stone ground with a _smack_ , lifted off again—

“Never—do—that—again,” Moody growled, emphasizing each word with a bounce into the air.

“Professor Moody!” McGonagall said in a shocked voice. She hurried up to the group, arms full of books.

“Hello, Professor McGonagall,” Moody said calmly, bouncing the ferret higher. There was still a decent number of students willing to risk tardiness for the show hanging about, and every one of them was tense and silent. Harry’s fingers itched towards his wand with the urge to defend his House mate, but he held himself still. Interfering would be incredibly stupid.

Maybe there was more of the Potter Gryffindorishness in him than he’d thought, if he was even tempted to jump in…

 _“What_ are you doing?” McGonagall said.

“Teaching.”

“Teaching?” McGonagall looked wildly between Moody and the ferret. “Professor—is that a _student?”_

“Yep,” said Moody.

“No!” McGonagall shrieked, and then the books tumbled out of her arms as she slashed her wand at the ferret.

A second later, with a snapping noise, Draco Malfoy appeared, sprawled out on the floor. His cheeks were pink with pain and humiliation and his blond hair fell across his face.

“C’mon,” Harry muttered, and he eased sideways, and Theo and Daphne followed without question. The three of them were good at maneuvering through crowds unnoticed and it helped that this one was so focused on something other than them. It took only a few seconds to drift seemingly casually over by their fellow Slytherins. McGonagall berated Moody for the use of transfiguration on a student but Harry ignored her; it was quite obvious that Moody didn’t give a shit for her rules.

Theo slouched against the arch that led to the dungeons, and Daphne examined her nails, and Harry twirled his wand absently around his fingers, the three of them a relaxed footnote to Malfoy’s sputtering indignation. They nonetheless made it clear who they supported here. Jules caught on and gave Harry a nasty glare.

Harry shrugged slightly.

Moody turned away from McGonagall and fixed his normal eye on Harry, who had the strong feeling that the magical one had been watching him and Theo and Daphne for a minute or two already.

“Mr. Malfoy, are you injured?” McGonagall said, striding forward and casting a rapid diagnostic spell. Ronald sniggered.

“Fine,” Malfoy snapped, scuttling backwards away from her and slamming into Crabbe’s legs. This only drew more laughter from the crowd.

Harry made an almost imperceptible gesture towards Theo, who sighed heavily, sauntered over, and stuck out a hand. “Come on, Malfoy, some of us need to get to class,” he said boredly.

Malfoy looked at the hand for a few seconds before he slowly reached up and let Theo pull him to his feet.

McGonagall backed away with an unreadable look at Theo and then Harry, and started chivvying students on the way to class. Fortunately, she included Jules and his posse in that group.

“I don’t like bloody snakes,” Moody growled at them in a low voice.

Harry turned his most charmingly innocent expression on the professor. “Well, sir, ‘fighting words’ haven’t been a legal excuse for dueling in over a century, and Julian _did_ draw his wand first, regardless of what Malfoy may or may not have said.”

“Say, Malfoy,” Daphne said suddenly, looking up from checking her hair in a compact mirror, “isn’t your father on the Board of Governors? I’m sure they’d be fascinated to hear about the use of transfiguration on a student as punishment. Another thing that’s been illegal for simply ages… Unless my memory’s acting up again,” she added with a vapid giggle, and returned to the mirror.

“I suppose I could write him,” Malfoy said, recovering his swagger. He lifted his chin and stared Moody down from in between Harry and Theo, with the beefcakes and Bulstrode lurking at his back. Probably he thought he was in charge of this little pageant. Harry tried not to laugh at the idea. “My father _would_ be interested to hear what’s going on here… and he can be persuasive.”

“Oh, yeah?” Moody said, the blue eye rolling between all of them in turn. “Well, I know your father of old, boy… You tell him Moody’s keeping his eye on his son... Now, your Head of House—that’d be Snape, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said sweetly.

Moody turned half his glare on Harry. It must be nice to be able to glare at two people at once, and it certainly didn’t diminish the power of it. “Another old friend,” he growled. “I’ve been looking forward to a chat with old Snape… Come, then, boy.”

He clunked off into the dungeons, clearly expecting Malfoy to follow.

The blonde hesitated.

“NOW, boy!”

With a stiff nod Harry’s direction, Malfoy turned and hurried off, his goon squad on his heels.

“What’d you do that for?” Theo said, watching them retreat. “We’re late for class.”

Harry smirked. “Building bridges, Theo. We’re getting to an age where he could be dangerous, and I have to live with him. Plus, rule one.”

“I hate acting the vapid blonde,” Daphne muttered, scowling. She’d dropped the act now that Moody was out of sight and gone back to her usual icy self.

Harry grinned at her as they turned to go to Arithmancy. “It’s a testament to your acting abilities, Daph—you could hardly pull off a character so different from your own without real skill…”

“Flatterer,” she sniffed, but there was a hint of a smile on her lips.

Harry realized very suddenly just how nicely shaped her lips were.

“You three!”

He snapped himself out of such thoughts with an inward grimace and turned to deal with McGonagall.

“Which class are you going to?” McGonagall said, looking harried. She’d just finished picking up the stack of books she’d dropped.

“Arithmancy, Professor,” Theo said. Hearing him sound innocent and guileless was just as hilarious as watching Daphne play a dumb bimbo.

“Ah—of course—Septima speaks very highly of your performance, all three of you,” McGonagall said. She somehow managed to hold the entire book stack while summoning a bit of parchment, an inkwell, and a quill, balancing said writing implements on the books, scribbling a quick note, and then vanishing the quill and inkwell. She handed the parchment to Daphne. “A late pass; you’ll receive no negative marks for your tardiness as long as you get to class in less than ten minutes.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Daphne said with a sweet smile.

 

That evening, the gossip around the dinner table was that Lucretia Howe and Marion Flesher both turned up with rashes in unsavory places, and were confined to the hospital wing until further notice. Seamus Finnegan was under a compulsion to say “BOOO” very loudly every few seconds when anyone was talking to him, even indirectly, which included teachers delivering lectures. Toby Pritchard emitted a horrific smell of rotten meat that he himself couldn’t identify that left him ostracized from his own House. Ben Creed couldn’t seem to get food in his mouth—anytime he tried to eat anything, it leaped off his fork or away from his fingers and smeared itself across his face or robes.

Pritchard and Creed both flinched away from Harry in the entrance hall after dinner. He smiled pleasantly after them and they paled and hurried away, Creed still trying to spell food off his robes and leaning slightly away from Pritchard’s stink. Finnegan booed a Hufflepuff in the background.

“You talked to them, I take it?” Pansy said. “As well as just the curses?”

“Only Pritchard and Creed. Finnegan would tell Jules, but those two I can frighten into silence.” Harry thought back with pleasure on their fearful faces when he’d cornered them after class. “They won’t be booing Slytherins next year, I can assure you. Hopefully Finnegan can take a hint. I’ll get to the girls later this year. Or possibly when Pomfrey lets them out.”

“Good,” Daphne said fiercely.

Theo glared in the same direction Blaise and Pansy were still looking, at Finnegan. “Good,” he echoed.

 

The Slytherins’ first lesson with Professor Moody fell two days later.

In a continued display of either naiveté or idiocy from Dumbledore, depending on the person you asked, the Slytherins and Gryffindors had double Defense _yet again_. Snape had been in a foul mood and given Jules, Ronald, Finnegan, and Lavender Brown each a night’s detention, leaving Neville alone probably only because he continued to pair with Harry, and Hermione alone because as usual she made one of the best potions in the class, topped only by Malfoy and then Harry. The Gryffindors went into Moody’s class eager for some payback and the Slytherins walked in with their hackles raised.

Harry sat down between Theo and Blaise with a heavy internal sigh.

“These are ridiculous,” Theo muttered, glaring contemptuously at _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_ as he hauled it out of his bag. “Ministry-whitewashed idiocy. We could take out anyone who learned by this book by last year.”

“Theo,” Blaise said.

“Wha-oh.” Theo grinned innocently at Neville, who’d managed to appear much more quietly than usual at Blaise’s elbow. “Hey, Neville, want to be fourth here?”

“What d’you mean?” Neville said, sitting down in the fourth seat at their table. “The dueling club wasn’t _that_ advanced…”

Harry half-shrugged; he’d been meaning to bring Neville into this anyway. “We have some, ah, extracurricular sessions,” he said tactfully. Mindful of potential eavesdroppers, he flicked his wand and muttered a few words to cast a quick privacy charm. “With spells that are—less than legal.”

“Ohhh,” Neville said. “And you were afraid I’d report you?”

To Harry’s relief, he was grinning.

“Something like that,” Blaise said, watching him closely.

“I dunno if you’ve noticed, but my family doesn’t exactly blindly follow the Ministry,” Neville said, pulling out his own book. “You should’ve heard Gran’s tirade when she flipped through this thing.”

“I wish I had,” Theo said.

“No,” Neville said darkly, “you really don’t. Can I come to these, er, extracurricular sessions?”

“As long as you don’t set anyone’s robes on fire,” Harry said, smirking as Neville flushed bright red. He was much better at controlling his new wand but it still randomly got excited and shot off sparks, bubbles, jets of water, or bursts of a yellowish gas they’d yet to identify other than that it wasn’t poisonous.

“Deal.”

Harry waved his wand again and brought the privacy charm down with a silent _finite_ just as Moody stomped into the classroom.

“You can put those away,” he growled without preamble, “those books. You won’t be needing them.”

“ _Well_ then,” Blaise said. Neville and Theo swapped an excited look as, with a flurry, the class moved to pack their books back into their bags. Maybe Moody wasn’t _quite_ as ridiculous as they thought…

He was still Dumbledore’s man and obviously exceedingly biased against Slytherins, though, so Harry wouldn’t trust him.

Moody went through the roll call perfunctorily, his magical eye fastening on each student as he or she answered to their name. It definitely lingered on Harry, and he reached a hand into his pack to stroke Eriss and calm himself when Moody moved on to calling the rest of the class. She hissed comfortingly.

The electric blue eye snapped back over to Harry.

He raised a single eyebrow, fished about a bit more, and pulled out a quill.

Moody looked away.

“Weird,” Theo whispered.

“Right then,” Moody said when he was finished. “I’ve been in touch with Lupin and it seems you’ve got a pretty thorough grounding in Dark creatures. But you’re behind—very behind—on dealing with curses.”

 _Not us,_ Harry thought with satisfaction. After last year, he was confident he, Theo, and Daphne were all good enough duelists to handle almost any other student in the school sixth year or below one-on-one. Blaise and Pansy weren’t far behind and the Slytherin third years were all ahead of their age. Harry fully intended to have Ginny and Natalie’s set work with the current second and first years—not only would it press the students forward with their magic and improve their grades, thus helping Slytherin’s reputation, but it would strengthen the ties and control his allies had to and over the younger set. Influence was everything in Slytherin House. Harry had been careful to cultivate students from each year below him and he didn’t intend to stop now.

“I’m here to bring you up to scratch on what wizards can do to each other,” Moody said. “I’ve got one year to teach you how to deal with Dark—”

“What, aren’t you staying?” Ronald blurted.

Moody turned to stare at Ronald, who at first looked apprehensive—but then Moody smiled. His face looked even more twisted, contorted, and terrifying than ever. “You’ll be Arthur Weasley’s son, eh?” Moody said. “Your father help got me out of the very tight corner a few days ago… Yeah, I’m staying just the one year. Special favor to Dumbledore… One year, and then back to my quiet retirement.”

“Oh, fantastic, Ronald’s the teacher’s pet now,” Theo said.

“What’d you expect from a Dumbledore man?” Blaise sneered softly.

Moody’s eye flipped around in their direction but he didn’t say anything about their talking.

“So—straight to it. Curses,” he said, seeming to relish the word. “They come in many strengths and forms. Now, according to the Ministry of Magic, I’m supposed to teach you countercurses and leave it at that. I’m not supposed to show you what illegal Dark curses look like until you’re in the sixth year. You’re not supposed to be old enough to deal with it until then. But Professor Dumbledore’s got a higher opinion of your nerves, and he reckons you can cope, and I say the sooner you know what you’re up against, the better. How are you supposed to defend yourself against something you’ve never seen? A wizard about to put an illegal curse on you isn’t going to tell you what he’s about to do. He’s not going to do it nice and polite to your face. You need to be prepared. You need to be alert and watchful. You need to put that away, Ms. Brown, when I’m talking.”

Lavender Brown jumped. Harry looked over; she’d been showing Parvati Patil what looked like a horoscope under her desk. Blaise and Theo snorted in unison; nearly all the Slytherins shared a distrust and distaste for what they considered the wishy-washy, unreliable, and foolish study of Divination. You were either a Seer or you weren’t, and it couldn’t be taught to those without the gift.

Harry filed away the knowledge that Moody’s eye could see through wood. Probably other obstructions, like stone…

His stomach went cold. Could Moody see into Harry’s bag? Had he noticed Eriss?

Harry promptly resolved never to bring his familiar to Defense again this year.

“So… do any of you know which curses are most heavily punished by Wizarding law?”

All the Slytherins, did, of course, but they kept quiet. Harry was especially curious to see where this was going. He’d read up on them over the summer from his Knockturn and Black books and he knew the incantations, knew you had to _mean_ it, but he’d yet to try one.

Several hands rose speculatively into the air, including Ronald’s and Hermione’s. Moody pointed at Ronald.

“Er… the Imperius Curse, or something?”

“Ah, yes,” Moody said, with what Harry considered altogether too much satisfaction. “Your father _would_ know about that one. Gave the Ministry a lot of trouble at one time, the Imperius Curse.”

Harry resisted the urge to glance at either Theo or Malfoy.

Moody got heavily to his mismatched feet, opened his desk drawer, and took out a glass jar that contained three spiders. Ronald recoiled and Theo snickered.

Moody reached into the jar, caught one of the spiders, and held it in the palm of his hand so they could all see it. He then pointed his wand at it and muttered, _“Imperio.”_

The spider leapt from Moody’s hand on a fine thread of silk and began to swing backward and forward as though on a trapeze. It stretched out its legs rigidly, then did a backflip, breaking the thread and landing on the desk, where it began to cartwheel in circles. Moody jerked his wand, and the spider rose onto its hind legs and went into what was unmistakably a tap dance.

All the Gryffindors save Hermione and Neville were laughing, along with Bulstrode, Goyle, and Crabbe.

“Think it’s funny, do you?” Moody growled. “You’d like it, would you, if I did it to you?”

The laughter died away instantly. _Idiots_ , Harry thought contemptuously.

“Total control,” Moody said quietly as the spider balled itself up and began to roll over and over. “I could make it jump out the window, drown itself, throw itself down one of your throats…”

Ronald shuddered. Harry narrowed his eyes and wondered exactly how much practice Moody had with this spell. It seemed an impressive level of control to carry on such an intense lecture while making the spider do acrobatics on the desk. It was only a spider, but _still._

“Years back, there were a lot of witches and wizards being controlled by the Imperius Curse,” Moody said. “Some job for the Ministry, trying to sort out who was being forced to act, and who was acting of their own free will.

“The Imperius Curse can be fought, and I’ll be teaching you how, but it takes real strength of character, and not everyone’s got it. Better avoid being hit with it if you can. CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” he barked, and nearly everyone jumped. Harry’s hand twitched toward his wand and he made himself leave it alone on the tabletop.

Moody flicked his wand, and the spider vaulted back into the jar before returning to normal spider-like behavior.

“Anyone know another one?” he said.

To Harry’s slight surprise, Neville’s hand rose confidently into the air.

“Yes?” said Moody, his magical eye rolling over to fix on Neville.

“The Cruciatus Curse,” Neville said firmly. His eyes were bright with either anger or grief. Harry felt a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Moody looked intently at Neville, then down at his register. “You’re Longbottom?” he said.

“Yes, sir,” Neville said.

Under the table, Harry nudged Neville’s ankle with his foot in a show of solidarity. Moody’s magical eye seemed to catch the motion. Harry didn’t let his expression change. Hopefully that eye didn’t have any kind of Legilimency enchantments on it.

“The Cruciatus Curse,” Moody said, placing a second spider on the table and swelling it to the size of a kitten. Ronald scooted his chair back. “ _Crucio.”_

The spider’s legs bent in at once on its body; it rolled over and began to twitch horribly. If it had a voice, Harry was certain it would’ve been screaming. Moody did not move his wand, and the spider began to jerk violently. Neville’s fists clenched but he didn’t react otherwise, watching determinedly. There was an odd expression on Moody’s face as he watched the spider, something almost like pleasure—

“Stop it!” Brown said shrilly.

Harry looked over. She was watching, not the spider, but Ronald, whose chair was now rocked back almost into the desk behind him and whose face was entirely gray.

“Bet he regrets running for the front row,” Blaise hissed.

Jules put a hand on Ronald’s shoulder and said something quietly.

Moody raised his wand. The spider’s legs relaxed, but it continued to twitch.

 _“Reducio_ ,” Moody said, and put the resized spider back into the jar. Ronald relaxed and a bit of color came back into his face.

“Pain,” Moody said softly. “You don’t need thumbscrews or knives to torture someone if you can perform the Cruciatus Curse. That one was very popular once too.”

 _And how popular was it with_ you _, Auror Moody?_ Yet again, he’d performed a highly illegal Dark curse with no apparent difficulty. Harry cocked his head, hoping to see the third…

“Anyone know the last?”

Jules’ hand was first into the air.

“Yes?” Moody said, looking right at him.

“Avada Kedavra,” Jules said, his voice full of the kind of strong confidence one used to cover up that you were nervous.

“Ah,” said Moody, a slight smile twisting his lopsided mouth. For a brief flash, the expression was slightly… _mismatched_ with his face, like it was one he wasn’t used to using, until the dissonance smoothed out and vanished. Harry half-thought he’d imagined the whole thing. “Yes, the last and worst. Avada Kedavra… the Killing Curse.”

He pulled out the third spider and placed it on the tabletop. It bolted immediately.

Moody raised his wand.

Harry leaned forward slightly.

 _“Avada Kedavra,”_ Moody said.

There was a bright green flash and a rushing sound—instantly the spider rolled over on its back, unmarked but unmistakably dead. Several students stifled cries of shock.

Harry stifled exactly how _intrigued_ he was by these three spells. Wouldn’t do for the loyal Dumbledore follower, retired Dark wizard catcher, and Light zealot to know…

Well, except a true Light zealot, like Crouch, wouldn’t dream of so much as learning how to cast these spells, let alone doing so enough to have this kind of control. Harry’s wariness and interest directed at Moody grew the more he knew of the man.

“Not nice,” Moody said calmly, sweeping the spider off his desk. “Not pleasant. And there’s no countercurse. Only one known person has survived being hit with the AK, and he’s sitting right in front of me.”

Both eyes fixed on Jules, and the rest of the class looked, too. Jules lifted his chin and sat back in his chair, used to being stared at and pointed at.

“Wish I knew how I did it,” he said lightly, and a ripple of laughter ran through the classroom.

Harry couldn’t quite mask his sneer, and Moody’s magical eye swiveled around in time to catch the tail end of it.

“This one’s a curse that needs a powerful bit of magic behind it—you could all get out your wands right now and point them at me and say the words, and I doubt I’d get so much as a nosebleed.”

 _Wouldn’t bet on it if I were you_ , Harry thought savagely.

“But that doesn’t matter. I’m not here to teach you how to do it.

“Now, if there’s no countercurse, why am I showing you? _Because you’ve got to know_. You’ve got to appreciate what the worst is. You don’t want to find yourself in a situation where you’re facing it. CONSTANT VIGILANCE!”

This time, even Harry flinched.

“Now… Those three curses—AK, Imperius, and Cruciatus—are known as the Unforgivable Curses. The use of any of them on a fellow human being is enough for a life sentence in Azkaban. That’s what you’re up against. That’s what I’ve got to teach you to fight. You need preparing. You need arming. But most of all, you need to practice _constant, never-ceasing vigilance._ Get out quills and copy this down…”

For the rest of the class, Harry pretended to have never read about the Imperius Curse before and copied down a load of information he already knew. His friends did the same. Moody lectured while they coped the words that scrolled across the blackboard, and Harry found himself listening closely. The man’s stories and anecdotes of battles from the last war and Auror missions done since were fascinating.

Moody dismissed them when the bell rang, already reaching for his hip flask to take a drink.

Harry joined the flow of students out the door and refused to look back, somehow certain that if he did, that bright blue eye would be fixed on him.

“Shit,” Theo muttered, once they were free of the crowd. “He’s… really something.”

“Mad as a hatter,” Blaise said flatly. “Doing the Unforgivables in a _classroom_? We know the incantations now!”

“Not that we’d _use_ them,” Hermione said, catching up to them. “He’s got to know that…”

 _Speak for yourself_ , Harry thought, but that would be pushing it. Hermione had a ways to go before she’d drop her qualms about illegal magic. He was pretty sure her desire for knowledge would win out eventually.

Pansy and Daphne called Hermione over to look at some magazine Pansy had pulled out of her bag, and Hermione trotted away with a cheerful wave.

“Something’s off about him,” Harry said.

“What d’you mean?” Neville asked.

“He’s an Auror,” Harry said, “and supposedly one of Dumbledore’s most loyal people… but he cast the Unforgivables like they were nothing. That’s more than just knowing of the spells and having tried them once or twice on insects just to see. That’s _practice.”_

A brief, unsettled silence followed as all three of them contemplated this.

“Fuck,” Blaise said, “you’re right.”

“Usually,” Harry drawled, and they all laughed, but there was an undercurrent of hesitation.

“Plus of _course_ he favors Ronald,” Neville muttered.

Blaise rolled his eyes. “Disgusting favoritism. Dumbledore has his pals Weasley and Diggory looking out for Mad-Eye Moody, keeps his criminal record cleanish and the nutty Auror out of jail, and gets an extremely dangerous man firmly in his camp. Regardless of what spells Moody may have resorted to in the war—fighting fire with fire, probably. That just makes him scarier.”

“Add him to the list of Dumbledore’s collectibles,” Harry muttered.

Neville frowned. “I think Gran knew him back in the day. I’ll write her and see what she knows.”

“Good idea,” Harry said. “See you, Nev…”

Neville veered off with Hermione to head back up to Gryffindor Tower, and the Slytherins retreated to the dungeons.

 

Harry felt Eriss’ nearness before she actually appeared. _“Do you have one?”_

Eriss poked her head up out of a crack in the floor, holding a large rat in her mouth, paralyzed by her venom. She carefully worked her fangs free of it and glared at him. _“Are you implying you don’t have faith in my hunting abilities?”_

 _“Sorry,”_ Harry said, smirking.

 _“Do… whatever it is you’re going to do. I’m hungry and I’d like to eat that.”_ Eriss paused. _“So I’d prefer you didn’t practice the cutting curses on it, those make a mess and they stick going down.”_

 _“No cutting curses today,”_ Harry promised. He was doing something a little more… questionable.

And he was doing it in the Chamber, as deep beneath the bowels of the school as he could get, because one of the few things he’d been able to read from Slytherin’s library was that the wards down here created a completely invisible bubble, free from interference from Hogwarts wards. Getting from the Chamber into the school was the same as crossing the wards on the grounds and Harry could only do it because he was a student and the Hogwarts wards recognized him.

This way, if Dumbledore or a previous headmaster had woven detection spells for truly Dark magic into the school wards, Harry wouldn’t get caught.

He transfigured air into stone walls penning the rat in on the floor—ever since the record room break-in second year, turning stone or wood into air or vice versa came easily to him and he’d found it immensely useful. Once he was sure the rat couldn’t get out, he forced a few drops of antivenin down its throat and muttered a few healing spells.

It came slowly back to life, first blinking, then twitching, and finally staggering uncertainly to its feet.

Good enough.

He pointed his wand at the rat and called on his Occlumency, clearing his mind of everything but what the book said he needed: an absolute, unshakable desire to dominate, rule, _control_ the being in front of him. He made himself believe that his need for the rat’s body was greater than the rat’s own need. That he had more of a right to control it than the animal’s own mind did.

_“Imperio.”_

His magic flickered, reached out, and for one split second Harry felt like he’d dipped his toe into a bath full of intoxicating potion—

—and then it was gone.

With a gasp, he broke the connection, stepping back.

_“Your hands are shaking.”_

_“So they are,”_ Harry replied, looking first at his trembling fingers and then at his familiar.

Eriss wound up his leg until she could butt her head against his fingers. _“Is it tiring?”_

 _“Yes,”_ Harry said, _“one of the most draining spells I’ve ever attempted… but I’m shaking because—it wasn’t unpleasant.”_

_“So it worked?”_

_“Not quite,”_ he admitted. _“But I felt… something.”_

With Eriss clinging to him, a comforting, familiar presence, Harry leveled his wand at the paralyzed rat and tried again.

And again.

Each time, that tantalizing glimpse of something—and then it would disappear.

By the time he gave up for fear of being magically exhausted in Transfiguration the next day, Harry had a splitting headache and his thoughts felt sluggish and slow. He sat down and stared blankly as Eriss ate the rat, collected her dense body, and draped her around his shoulders as he trudged back up the long path to the exit by the Slytherin dorms.

“Potter?”

Harry blinked and looked up; it was a testament to his exhaustion that he hadn’t noticed Malfoy there in the dungeons, and that he hadn’t pulled his wand the second the blond spoke. “Malfoy.”

“You look… awful.”

“Yes, thanks,” Harry said irritably. “What are you doing up? It’s four hours past curfew.”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Malfoy said.

Harry sneered at him. “You could, but I wouldn’t answer.”

A long pause, and Harry’s irritation mounted as Malfoy defied him. He was too bloody tired for this, dammit, tired and brain-sore, and he really just wanted a vial of his home-brewed Headache Cure potion and then a dose of Dreamless Sleep strong enough to keep the nightmares at bay for five hours since his Occlumency shields were weak and tattered. The unconscious, wandless damper he usually kept on his eye color slipped by degrees, and Harry felt the broken part of him rising to the surface—the part he normally kept locked away, the bits of him that the Dursleys and Dumbledore and James had directly or indirectly shattered beyond repair, and he couldn’t stop himself picturing Malfoy’s body sprawled out on the ground with blood in that perfect blond hair—

“Bit of dueling practice,” Malfoy said. “Just on my own, target practice, learning some new spells—”

Harry blinked and realized Malfoy had stepped back, and looked _afraid_.

“Right,” he said, and wrestled his instincts back under control. “Just making sure. Wouldn’t want Slytherin to lose any more points from you wandering about at night.”

The jab about Malfoy’s ill-planned efforts to catch the Gryffindors smuggling a dragon in first year hit home. Malfoy scowled.

“I’m heading back,” Harry said. “Coming?”

“…yes,” Malfoy said.

The other boy fell into step next to Harry, keeping a cautious distance.

Eriss shifted to find a more comfortable position for the bulge in her belly.

Malfoy yelped and stumbled into a wall.

“Really, Malfoy, you need to control yourself,” Harry drawled. “It’s like you’re a first year again.”

“You’ve got a snake ‘round your shoulders,” Malfoy said flatly, recovering.

Harry smirked at him. “Meet my familiar, Eriss. Eriss, say hello.”

Eriss lifted her head, opened her mouth, and hissed at Malfoy, showing her fangs.

To his credit, the blond only paled a little. Seemed it had mostly been the shock that got to him. “Hell, Potter. You’ve got balls.”

“Bonded familiars are allowed at Hogwarts,” Harry said casually. He kept on walking and forced Malfoy to keep pace with him. “So no, not really—I’m not breaking a single rule.” Pause. “Except curfew… but you’re hardly going to tattle on me for that.”

Malfoy actually grinned a little. “Definitely not.”

Harry glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “Ask whatever question you’re chewing on.”

“Er—who else knows…”

“About Eriss?” Malfoy looked a touch nervous again, but he nodded. Harry shrugged. “The usual crew—Theo, Pansy, Daphne, Blaise, Neville, Hermione, Justin. Ginny. Sirius. Oh, and Hestia and Flora.”

_“Carrow?”_

“Do you know anyone else named Hestia or Flora?” Harry said testily.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “You know perfectly well why I’m surprised, Potter.”

“I swore them to secrecy on it,” Harry said indifferently. “So don’t try to talk to either of them about it, they won’t.”

“You confuse me,” Malfoy muttered.

Harry grinned. “You’re not the only one. Ashwinder.”

The common room entrance slid open, letting them both in. A few NEWT students were scattered around at the dark wooden tables around the room; they looked up, dismissed Harry and Malfoy’s arrival as unimportant, and went back to their books.

 

“Got a letter from Gran about Moody.”

Harry looked up sharply. Neville was just straightening out from squeezing into the Knights Room, waving a scroll in front of him.

“Let’s see,” Theo said eagerly.

Harry cast a quick stasis spell on his potion and turned the flame under his cauldron down low. He, Blaise, Daphne, Pansy, Fred, George, Hermione, and Justin all clustered around the bowl of Bluebell Flames in the middle of the room. They’d gradually added chairs and lamps that burned with wizard light and cushions and end tables, all mismatched and stolen from random places around the castle. The Knights Room still had some shadows that lurked in the corners and wouldn’t go away but it was altogether a nicer place to gather than it had been when he found it in second year.

Neville found a seat, unrolled the letter, and read it aloud.

_Neville,_

_I admit I’m shocked Albus hired Alastor Moody of all people to teach Defense. He was a renowned Auror even twenty years ago and one of the most loyal and dangerous of those who fought for the Light in the war, and for some years after he was one of the Auror department’s best in the field, but by all reports he should’ve been left out to pasture. Using transfiguration on a student—I’ve never heard of such idiocy! I’m shocked Minerva didn’t curse him on the spot. I can assure you, she’s quite capable._

_Regarding your request for more information—the following is all I know of the man. Alastor Moody was born in 1918 to Jonathan Conrad Moody and Leah Kelly Moody n_ _é_ _e Sparrow, both Scottish houses tracing back nearly as long as the Parkinsons or Longbottoms, though like most of the Scottish and Irish lines the Moodys and Sparrows have a number of Muggle-born and halfblood marriages each century, because there’s a smaller pond to fish from in those regions. The Moodys are known for turning out Aurors, paranoia, delusions in their old age, and impulsivity. The Sparrows are known for raw power—there was a Death Eater from their family who I believe is currently serving a life sentence in Azkaban. The combination made any number of people nervous when Jonathan and Leah married, though it may have contributed to Moody’s fast-track acceptance to the Auror Program, and he quickly proved himself the equal of any of his famous Auror ancestors. His rise was meteoric and he was one of the most renowned Aurors of the department from the nineteen thirties on. His career should’ve been much longer, but he put himself in harm’s way so often, took so much spell damage, that it aged him prematurely. They basically forced him to either retire or take an administrative role when he tore apart half the Auror office over a supposed assassination plot in 1983, and he reportedly screamed that he’d rather go to Azkaban than get stuck behind a desk before cursing the then Chief Auror, Michael Robinson, and leaving. My friends in the DMLE tell me some of his old friends, including Dumbledore and Weasley, put considerable effort into rescuing him from violations of the Statue of Secrecy, misuse of Muggle object laws, or improper use of magic charges every few months._

_Pay close attention to what Moody has to say, Neville. He’s not stable, but he will be an invaluable for deciding whether you wish to follow your parents’ footsteps into the DMLE, and a useful connection if you decide to do so. Learn from him but do not trust him. He tells Dumbledore anything, although if Dumbledore were to be caught using Dark magic, Moody would throw him into Azkaban in a heartbeat. Moody was not above using the Killing Curse in battle in the war—he personally killed Evan Rosier with it, and filled half the cells in Azkaban because he wasn’t afraid to fight fire with fire—but it was all above-board. Dark magic for its own sake, or the use of the Cruciatus or to a lesser extent the Imperius—he would be irate. He considers Avada to have its uses and Imperius as well, under extreme restrictions, and he once told me being capable of casting Cruciatus should equal a sentence to Azkaban. The man’s principels are ironclad and take precedence over all else. He’s also paranoid and unstable. Don’t cross him._

Neville looked up.

“Is there more?” Theo said.

“Yes, but it’s my private correspondence,” Neville said, “so I’m not reading it aloud.”

Blaise grinned. “Fair enough.”

“Does no one else find it strange that a reported hater of Dark magic and Dark wizards cast the Unforgivables like he runs through them all before breakfast every morning?” Harry said.

It was the first time he’d brought up his theory in front of Pansy, Daphne, Hermione, the twins, or Justin, and all four of them swapped uneasy glances while Blaise, Theo, and Harry monitored their responses.

“That is weird,” Fred admitted. “I didn’t think about it…”

“…but he really shouldn’t have been able to cast them so easily,” George finished.

Hermione looked doubtful. “Well, it was only spiders, wasn’t it? Can’t be _that_ hard…”

Harry wanted to point out how hard it had been on rats, but that was probably pushing it, so he left out his own foray into Unforgivable Curses. Although _technically_ using them on animals wasn’t illegal, it was _not_ a good sign if people knew he was practicing them.

Frankly, Harry wasn’t sure what _he_ thought of his own willingness to learn them. Except that… magic was magic, and nothing he’d read implied they were the variety of spell that actually affected the caster, and they were _useful_ , and the power they promised was tantalizing.

Whether he intended to ever use them on another human being… well, he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

“Might help to do some independent research on them,” Pansy said oh-so-casually.

Harry eyed her. He thought he knew where she was going with this…

“All the books that would cover them are in the Restricted Section,” Hermione said, “and the only professor I can imagine letting us in there would be Moody, but I’m guessing we don’t exactly want him to know we’re researching this, do we?”

“Definitely not,” Neville said.

Daphne, Pansy, and Theo were all aggressively telegraphing something along the lines of _Harry this is on you_ in Harry’s direction, although it was Slytherin telegraphing, so Harry doubted anyone else would notice. Maybe Justin.

“I have a few books on the subject,” he said, deciding to take the opening they’d given him. “If you want to read more about them. I was… doing some extracurricular studies this summer.”

“ _Extracurricular studies_ is such a versatile term,” Blaise said dreamily.

Theo kicked him.

“Where’d you get those?” Fred said.

“Not exactly Flourish and Blotts’ usual content,” George said.

Harry paused. Not a hesitation, but a brief silence to indicate he was aware that this answer had some weight to it, and that he wasn’t being flippant. “Knockturn. And Sirius’ family library.”

“But… Knockturn’s _Dark_ , Harry,” Hermione said.

Theo shrugged. “Kinda, but also it’s just that crime and low income go together, and the Ministry labels it Dark so they have an excuse for the higher crime rate in the area than Diagon that means they can cop out of the _actual_ problem.”

Hermione looked horrified. “That’s terrible!”

“Don’t trust the government, ‘Mione,” Justin said, grinning. “Mum taught me that one from the cradle. It’s useful but you have to keep an eye on it.”

Neville bit his lip. “Are they illegal books, Harry?”

“Some.”

His fellow Slytherins didn’t give two shits for illegal or legal when it came to books and magic, Harry knew, but Justin, Hermione, Neville, and the twins would be waiting for one of them to act first and either go with this or keep protesting.

“Sure,” Hermione said. “I’d be interested. Can you transfigure the covers?”

Harry smirked. He had them. “You will be receiving a stack of the most boring history books known to wizardkind this weekend.”

“And in the meantime, we can keep an eye on him,” Justin said, “but not a whole lot else…”

“I’ll write home, see what Mum knows,” Pansy said. “Not likely to be much, but…”

“We’ll do the same,” Fred promised.

“Dad’s known him for ages.”

“Never met him but sometimes Dumbledore’s old buddies get together—”

“—and Dad sees him at those.”

Harry nodded. “Good plans. Speaking of planning, what’s with you two lately?” he said to Fred and George. “I keep finding you huddled up whispering in corners…”

The twins shared a loaded glance before they decided to speak. “Bagman,” said George darkly.

“Paid us in leprechaun gold,” Fred added.

“It all vanished—”

“—and he’s been ridiculously evasive.”

Theo snorted. “That’s what you get for gambling with _Bagman_ of all people.”

Fred threw a pillow at him.

 

“Sirius Black!”

Harry pulled out a book and started reading while he waited for a response. He was holed up in his bed, curtains drawn and the strongest privacy wards he knew (which by now were _very_ strong), having decided that a week into term was a good time to call his godfather.

Sirius only left him waiting for fifteen or twenty minutes before Harry heard his own name in response.

“Hi,” Harry said, grinning as he set the book—one referenced by the seventh-year transfiguration textbook—aside.

“How’s first term?” Sirius’ face filled the mirror; it looked like he was in the kitchen. His hair was clean and tied back and his skin was robust. Harry wondered at the changes wrought in his appearance since June. He was still a bit hollow-faced and the shadows of Azkaban would never really leave his eyes, but he was _healing_.

“Great,” Harry said, and filled Sirius in on Malfoy and Hermione’s chess game, the start-of-term feast, Moody, Moody turning Malfoy into a ferret, and his first few lessons, lingering on Moody’s.

Sirius’ eyebrows climbed toward his hairline when Harry told him about seeing the Unforgivable Curses in class. “That’s… not easy magic,” Sirius said. “Or Light. But he was an Auror for forty-six years, and fought against the Dark Lord, when Aurors were authorized to cast the Killing Curse. I’m not surprised he knows them.”

“Have you… ever cast any of the Unforgivables?” Harry said hesitantly.

Sirius’ jaw flexed. “Harry…”

“I’m not going to—to tell, or anything,” Harry said quickly. “I’m just… well, it made me curious, you know? Is it that much easier when it’s spiders or is he actually as good a wizard as everyone’s saying? I grew up Muggle, I’ve no idea who he is…”

“He’s a brilliant wizard,” Sirius said instantly. “The Unforgivables take raw magical power _and_ uncommon strength of mind to cast. I’ve cast… the AK three times. Hit my target once. Masked Death Eater; never knew his name. I was an Auror. Not all of us could or would use AK when they let us, your dad wouldn’t, but—when it’s kill or be killed, I’d as rather not die.”

“You don’t have to justify it,” Harry said quietly. “Magic is magic and survival is survival.”

Sirius chuckled darkly. “I suppose you’d get what it means to survive. James never did… I used Imperius once, to get someone to walk me into a Death Eater hideout under James’ Invisibility Cloak—and…”

Harry waited.

“…Crucio, once,” Sirius admitted. “I… it was after Marlene’s death. Dolohov nailed her with an Entrails-Expelling Curse when we responded to a raid on a shipment of Brazilian potions ingredients going to the Ministry. I, er, lost control a bit. My charming cousin Bellatrix interrupted before I could kill him and Disapparated with him.”

Harry nodded slowly. “I’m betting my dad doesn’t know about either of those.”

“Ha,” Sirius said. “Hardly. No one, actually—except the rat, he was with Marlene and me when I went after Dolohov, and he was the only one who picked up on how vague I was about getting into the Death Eater safe house that one time in the first place. Cornered me about it later. Kept them both secret. I’m still not entirely sure why.”

“Would _he_ have understood surviving?” Harry said.

“I’m not sure,” Sirius admitted. “He got snappy second year when James brought up how we didn’t know anything about his parents, and wouldn’t talk about anything to do with his home life, family, whatever. Went home on all the holidays and never complained, but—he didn’t get any owl post, either.”

“Weird.”

“Yeah, well, first we were immature schoolboys and then there was a war happening, so no one had time to try and figure it out.”

Harry wanted to question how good of friends they’d been to quit trying, but held himself back. “Did you fight with Moody?”

“We were both in the Order but he didn’t interact with us younger set much. Mostly just skulked around and barked _constant vigilance_ and lectured us for keeping our wands in our trouser pockets when we weren’t wearing robes—apparently it’s dangerous and you can blow your buttocks off.”

Harry grinned. “I’ll certainly heed that advice.”

“Good,” Sirius said. “You’re keeping up on homework?”

“Between you and me, Transfiguration and Potions are boring,” Harry said. “I went through the fourth-year textbooks the summer after second year. History’s boring as usual—I do my own research so I don’t have to rely on Binns. Charms is still my hardest class but I’m getting better, and I’m top of the class in Runes and close behind Hermione and Justin and one of the Ravenclaws in Arithmancy.”

“Fantastic,” Sirius said, grinning. “You’ve certainly inherited your mother’s brains and work ethic, James never spent any more time reading than he absolutely had to. He preferred Quidditch.”

“Sounds like Jules,” Harry said, smirking.

“Like father, like son,” Sirius said. “Except in your case.”

“And yours,” Harry pointed out.

“Unfortunately, I definitely got his temper,” Sirius said. “And sense of humor. It’s just luck I didn’t also get his insanity or sadism.”

“I consider myself exceedingly fortunate,” Harry said.

Sirius grinned. “You should go to sleep, Harry, Bletchley has Saturday morning Quidditch, right?”

“At the absolute asscrack of dawn,” Harry agreed. “It’s horrible. We’re not even playing this year because of the Triwizard but he insists we keep practicing. I think he might actually have a problem.” Sirius laughed. “Talk to you later?”

“For sure. Call me whenever. I’m showing Vanessa and Hazel and some of their friends the bike tomorrow—I’ll let you know how it goes!”

Harry pointed at him. “If you crash that thing in Muggle London and violate the Statute of Secrecy, I’m going to be pissed.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sirius said. “Have fun at Quidditch.”

 

Even Harry started to feel the drag of the increased workload as they moved into the second week of term. He had his language studies with Babbling and Theo to work on, and he was still pushing ahead in Transfiguration, Potions, Arithmancy, and Ancient Runes. There was Quidditch practice, the project to slowly decipher books from the Chamber of Secrets, working through his new Knockturn and Black books, and studying for and running the dueling club. Somehow it had turned into Harry being the unofficial leader. He found that he liked leading, liked teaching and guiding and taking pride in the younger kids’ progress and the older set when they bested him or mastered a new spell, and he definitely liked having influence. Being able to suggest things or say things and have people listen and do as he said. He enjoyed the rest of his independent work immensely as well, of course, but there was homework to complete and essays for Herbology or History or Potions were nothing but boring and time-consuming. Flitwick assigned three books to read on Summoning Charms that Harry ignored—he’d mastered _accio_ a year ago and already read two of the three books. Snape’s antidote work he took seriously. The theory he had down but putting it into practice wasn’t a once-and-done thing to learn, plus Snape had hinted he might try poisoning one of them at some point as a test.

He found himself actually looking forward to Moody’s next lesson, the second Monday of term, if only because it was sure to be exciting.

Instead of giving notes on the Cruciatus—Harry had been fully prepared to sneer under his breath with Theo at the ridiculous watered-down information like what they’d been fed on the Imperius the previous Thursday—Moody kicked off the class by announcing that they’d be learning how to throw off the Imperius.

“No way,” Blaise breathed.

“But—but you said it’s illegal,” Patil said uncertainly. “You said to use it on another human being…”

In unison, all the Slytherins and half of the Gryffindors turned to stare at her. Harry wanted to curse the girl—if she cost him this opportunity to get such useful experience—

But Moody only fixed her with his eerie, unblinking, magical stare and said, “Dumbledore wants you to know what it feels like. If you’d rather learn the hard way—when an enemy’s putting you under _their_ total control—fine by me. You’re excused. Off you go.”

Patil’s brown skin darkened and she mumbled something about not really meaning it like _that_.

“Right, then,” Moody said, looking around. “Crabbe, you first.”

Harry would’ve laughed very hard as Dean Thomas sang the national anthem, Lavender Brown imitated a squirrel, Millicent Bulstrode danced the cancan, and Pansy performed a series of gymnastics she’d never have been able to manage otherwise, if he hadn’t known that in short order he’d be fighting the urge to do something similar. Theo displayed a slight resistance, to Moody’s delight, and then Jules came along and crashed into a desk instead of jumping on it. Moody got even more excited by this and spent twenty minutes trying to get Jules to throw the curse off entirely. Jules made a little more progress but he couldn’t throw it off completely, just mess up whatever instruction he’d been given.

All the while, Harry’s certainty that there was more to Moody than met the eye got stronger. He was repeatedly casting the Imperius on people who had full warnings, knew what was coming, and had time to prepare, he had yet to verbalize a command, and he hadn’t shown a single sign of flagging. Harry was sure that this had nothing to do with insects being easier than people. The glances passed between him and Hermione, who’d been reading some unpleasant Dark tomes loaned to her from Harry, Theo, and Daphne in the last few days, spoke volumes.

“Potter,” Moody growled. “The older one. You’re next.”

Crushing his nervousness down into the bottom of his stomach, Harry stood and walked to the front of the classroom. He knew he was not imagining the glee in most of the Gryffindors’ eyes at the prospect of Hadrian Potter humiliating himself. Of the Slytherins, they hated only Malfoy and possibly Theo more.

Moody pointed his wand at Harry. _“Imperio!”_

Instantly, a wonderful feeling came over Harry. The world went blank and white… his worries drained away, the stress of managing his schedule, the frustration about his current plateau in learning to read Old High German… it all disappeared and left a delightful numbness in its wake.

In fact, it was so wonderful that he thought… he thought it wasn’t natural…

It felt like trying to pry up a carpet, how you could struggle for ages to get any kind of purchase but once you did the rest came easily. That one half-second of doubt gave Harry just a heartbeat in which to realize that _this was not normal_ and he _could not trust_ anything that altered his mental state. Between dementors and veela and his nightmares he had plenty of practice controlling his mind. Organizing it. Knowing what was in it, what was him and what was not.

This feeling was most definitely _not_.

And it was speaking to him. Commanding him to get down on all fours and act like a pig.

How bloody _humiliating._

The icy clarity of anger rushed through Harry’s body and burned the numbness and relaxation out of his limbs.

_Just go on… down on all fours, then oink a bit, root around on the floor…_

Harry examined the voice. _That’s not me_ , he thought, and resisted its command. It was hard. It took all his willpower. He couldn’t move in any direction—but he didn’t move at all.

_Pig! Be a pig! NOW!_

“As funny as it would be to see me imitating swine, I believe I’ll have to regretfully decline,” Harry drawled, lifting his chin and meeting Moody’s eyes with just a _hint_ of a smirk in place.

For the third time, he noticed just a _bit_ of… dissonance—then it was gone and there was only shock causing the old Auror’s mouth to gape open and both of his eyes to fixate on Harry.

The class was silent and stunned.

“If I may return to my seat now?” Harry said.

Moody blinked. “Ah—yes. Ten points to Slytherin, Mr. Potter. Good fight.”

“Thank you, sir,” Harry said, knowing full well he wouldn’t be able to charm this one and not caring. He turned smartly on one heel and couldn’t resist shooting a wink in Jules and Ronald’s direction. Both of them looked furious.

“How?!” Blaise whispered fiercely when Harry sat back down.

“Not here,” Harry hissed back, barely moving his lips.

 

By the end of the class, Daphne had joined Theo and Jules in the ‘partial resistance’ camp and Harry remained the only student who could throw the Imperius off completely. He became subject to instant grilling on the subject that continued all afternoon as word spread in Slytherin that Harry had beaten the Imperius on his first try. Reactions ranged from jealousy to awe. He smirked at the jealousy and took the admiration as his due—he’d _worked_ at his Occlumency, damn it, and he deserved recognition for his hard-earned control—and kept on with his own studies.

 

Harry crept down to the Chamber of Secrets again that evening with Eriss and several paralyzed rats in tow.

After thirty minutes of work, fighting through a headache, Harry managed to compel the last rat to stand up on its hind legs, turn a somersault, and then draw runes in the dirt.

The rush of power that came with the control was the best thing he’d ever felt.


	11. Guests

Harry trudged back up to the castle, every step a chore. After an unofficial Quidditch practice and then one of Bletchley’s brutal workouts in the weights room _after_ a full day of classes and then an hour and a half with dueling club, he really just wanted to collapse into a bath in the Slytherin dorms before dinner. He could throw up some good wards with a stunning spell built in to make it _very extra clear_ he didn’t want to be bothered.

“Harry! Where’re you going?”

“What?” He blinked at Justin, then the people milling about by the steps up to the entrance hall. It was his day to reset the weights for everyone else and he’d been the last one up from the pitch… the grounds should be deserted, what were all these people doing…

Oh. _Oh._ A few synapses fired and Harry remembered this was the October 30 th, the day for the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students to arrive.

And he looked like absolute shit. Fantastic.

“Thanks,” he said with a rueful grin, changing direction to join Justin. His Hufflepuff friend was standing with Hannah Abbott and Zoey Hughes. Harry knew Hannah pretty well and he’d gotten a pretty good impression of Hughes’ personality, if not her intelligence, in shared Herbology classes, so he decided to experiment a bit. As he reached the girls, he did his best to mimic the flirtatiousness he’d been noting in Everett Kinney, Adrian Pucey, and Blaise, all three of them ladies’ men. Harry kept it light but Hughes turned red and Hannah looked away with a tiny smile on her face as they greeted him.

“Hi, Harry,” said Hannah, and Hughes mumbled something that sounded a little like _hello_.

“Rough practice?” Justin said knowingly, eyeing Harry’s green-and-gray sweater and padded Quidditch trousers. They only wore the full silver-chased green robes at matches to keep them clean.

“You’ve no idea,” Harry muttered. “Even with no Quidditch this year, Bletchley’s determined to run us all to the ground.” With an effort, he summoned his usual composure, and cast several silent hair charms when the girls weren’t looking.

Justin grinned. “Don’t worry, your hair’s fine.”

“Fine doesn’t mean it can’t be better,” Harry said, stowing his wand.

“You’re acting like Malfoy.”

“Please, he takes nearly forty minutes to get ready in the mornings,” Harry said, ignoring the probe. Justin was probably wondering about the rumors of Harry, Theo, and Daphne intervening for Malfoy against Moody, and curious why Malfoy was cautiously engaging in conversation with Harry’s crew at mealtimes, but he’d have to work a little harder than that.

He could practically feel Justin’s wheels turning as he looked for another way to ask. Harry smirked.

“You know perfectly well I’m wondering what the hell is going on with Malfoy, you prat, stop making me stew over it,” Justin said suddenly.

Harry’s smirk turned into a full-blown grin. “I’m not doing anything, Justin.”

“I hate Slytherins,” Justin muttered.

“No, you don’t.”

Justin let it lie, seemingly accepting Harry’s evasion.

“I’ve been trying to moderate him for years,” Harry said finally.

“Decided to answer, have you?” Justin muttered.

Harry grinned. “At first it was House politics, but he’s actually rather intelligent, his family is wealthy and well-connected, and on top of that I have to live with him for four more years, so I’d rather be on good terms with him if possible.”

“Plus, I think he’s missing out on friendship,” Justin said. Harry followed his friend’s hazel gaze to Malfoy standing somewhat near them with Bulstrode, Crabbe, and Goyle. “You know, those three are Malfoy’s minions, and they’re friends with each other, but I don’t think they’re friends with _him_. It’s got to be lonely.”

“Mmm,” Harry said, considering how he ought to respond. How honest he should be.

Justin sighed. “But you don’t give a shit about that, so I’ll just be happy that some actual friendships might form for him out of you cultivating him and you can be all Slytherin and satisfied with your new chess piece, how’s that?”

 “It sounds like an excellent compromise.”

“Should we join them right now?” Justin said.

“You’re that eager to reach out to the pureblood bigot?” Harry said.

Justin threw up his hands. “Okay, no, but you’re not stupid and if you think he’s worth cultivating, I can _also_ see those benefits even if they don’t motivate me as much as you. Plus he was decent to Hermione on the train, so maybe there’s hope for him.” He paused. “It helps that I understand the origins of blood purity prejudice now. I mean, it’s still stupid, but there’s—a point lurking underneath all the idiocy.”

“Why not,” Harry said. “Will Hannah and Hughes go along with it?”

“They’re sidetracked,” Justin said. He started drifting seemingly naturally through the growing crowd; Harry followed with a glance over his shoulder. The Hufflepuff girls had joined a group of their House mates surrounding a tall, square-chinned boy with a kind of benevolent kindness in his face, like he was Merlin’s gift to wizardkind, sent to spread niceness and fairness in his wake. The kind of person Harry usually disliked just for making it so impossible to hate them. “Diggory’s son, right?”

“Cedric,” Justin confirmed.

A scrap of conversation from the group made it to Harry’s ears undistorted. “He’s trying for Champion?”

“He’s been decent about it,” Justin said. “Not bragging—but he’s definitely going for it.”

“I’d rather Warrington than him, honestly,” Harry said.

Justin grinned. “Of course you would, she’s a Slytherin.”

 “Who’s a Slytherin?”

They both faked surprise as they looked up at Malfoy. “Er—Cassiopeia Warrington,” Justin said. “Right?”

“Of the champions?” Malfoy said.

Harry jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Diggory. “We were discussing the relative merits of various contenders for Hogwarts champion.”

Malfoy lifted his chin haughtily. Behind him, Bulstrode sent a hasty nod Harry’s direction and returned to a conversation with Crabbe and Goyle that Harry couldn’t and frankly didn’t want to catch. “I would certainly prefer Warrington or Bletchley to him. Even Montague’s entering. Though Merlin knows he’s an idiot so it’s hardly likely.”

Harry grinned.

“Hufflepuff deserves some time in the spotlight,” Justin said.

“We’ll see what this ‘impartial judge’ of Dumbledore’s says,” Harry said, amused.

Justin scoffed. “Knowing Dumbledore, it might not be that impartial.”

Harry had to choke back a grin at the suddenly speculative look on Malfoy’s face as he studied Justin. He’d almost definitely been expecting the Hufflepuff Muggle-born to be on the We Love Dumbledore train. People really needed to stop underestimating Hufflepuffs; Justin’s calculated addition to the conversation was as clever as any Slytherin could manage.

“I wonder what it is,” Malfoy said.

“Your father didn’t tell you?”

They all looked over at Daphne, Pansy, and Hermione, who’d spoken, coming down the steps to join their group.

Malfoy scowled at Hermione. “Contrary to popular belief, Granger, he doesn’t disclose all his private Wizengamot business to his teenage son.”

“Funny,” Hermione said, “you always make it seem like your parents deny you nothing…”

“Who in Gryffindor’s going to try for it?” Pansy said.

Harry telegraphed appreciation in her direction for heading off the pending argument. Not that it wasn’t entertaining to watch Malfoy and Hermione snipe at each other, but Harry just wasn’t in the mood. He was too tired.

“Emma Marks,” Hermione said at once. “Seventh year. Carson Reed, also seventh year, he’s considering it, but I’m not sure he’ll go for it. Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet both said they’ll put their names in. Have Fred and George told you their insane plan yet?”

Harry grinned. “Oh yes. I really doubt they’ll be able to fool whatever Dumbledore cooks up to keep anyone underage from entering but I’ll enjoy watching them try.”

“Are you going to help?” Malfoy said.

“Why would he?” Theo said. “We’re even younger than the twins.”

“I’m fairly sure that if your whole lot put your heads together you’d have a better shot than those two on their own,” Malfoy said. “Or that you could help them, if you felt like it.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. Malfoy was more observant than he’d thought.

“Was that a _compliment_ , Draco?” Pansy said with a simpering smile.

“Bugger off, Pans,” he said.

Pansy laughed. “Never.”

McGonagall’s crisp voice and Snape’s sneering orders cut off conversation and alerted them to the Heads’ arrival. All four Heads of House waded into the fray and separated their students into lines by House and year. Harry said a quick “see you” to Hermione and Justin and ended up between Malfoy and Daphne with the other Slytherin fourth years.

“How’d you get changed out of your Quidditch gear so fast?” he muttered to Malfoy.

“I went straight to the dorms and I didn’t have to reset the weight densities,” Malfoy said. “It’s not _that_ complicated.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Given how you carry on in the mornings, you’ll have to forgive my surprise.”

“Shut up, Potter.”

“Don’t give me orders,” Harry said. The words might’ve been teasing except he put just a little bit of ice in his tone and shot Malfoy a sideways glare.

Malfoy sneered, but shut up.

Harry wished Moody’s roving eye wasn’t around so much. He missed the comforting weight of Eriss around his shoulders. He thought he might have a working version of his invisibility runespell, but he had no idea if that eye could see through it (probably) and didn’t want to risk everyone finding out about his familiar.

There were a lot of people who wouldn’t take it as well as his dueling club associates.

“If I’m not mistaken, the delegation from Beauxbatons approaches,” Dumbledore called out from the back row, where he stood with the other teachers.

Excitement rippled through the crowd. Harry stood up straighter, scanning the grounds and the road from Hogsmeade. No way would they be using brooms and Portkeys were an undignified way to travel and the wizard or witch with enough power to Apparate here from France or wherever Durmstrang lurked was rare. Connection to the international Floo in Diagon Alley and then taking the train to Hogsmeade was possible, but the general consensus in Slytherin was that this was a competition and their opponents would be arriving as dramatically as possible.

“There!” shouted a Hufflepuff sixth year, pointing out over the forest.

“It’s a dragon!” one of the first years shrieked, losing her head.

Daphne rolled her eyes. “Imbecile,” she hissed.

“It’s a flying house!” Dennis Creevey shouted.

Harry rolled his eyes. Neither guess was likely, but as the flying object got closer, he could make out—

“It’s a carriage, you idiots,” someone from Ravenclaw shouted.

And a huge one—distance made it hard to tell at first but as the powder blue carriage and the dozen winged palomino-colored horses that pulled it crossed over Hagrid’s hut, it became abundantly clear that the horses were the size of elephants and the carriage itself was half again the size of the Dursleys’ home.

“Dramatic,” Malfoy said.

With a _thud_ that Harry could feel in the flagstone steps beneath his feet, the first of the horses landed on the lawn before them. Each one landed just as hard, rolling fiery red eyes and stamping restlessly, and then the carriage hit hard enough to bounce twice before it rolled to a stop.

Harry just had time to register that there was a coat of arms wrought in gold on the door before it sprang open and a young man in light blue robes jumped out. He deftly unfolded a set of expanding golden stairs from just inside the carriage and stood respectfully back.

The woman who led the way out of the carriage turned out to be the size of Hagrid.

“Explains the size of the carriage and the horses,” Pansy said.

Her shoes were the size of children’s sleds and her robes, inky black, managed to be flattering while also consisting of enough material to make a good-sized tent. Opals gleamed on her fingers and around her throat; she had olive skin and a strong nose. She wasn’t especially pretty but she radiated elegance and confidence, which more than made up for it.

Dumbledore began to applaud as she approached the base of the steps; following his lead, the rest of Hogwarts did too. The woman relaxed and smiled haughtily, clearly taking the applause as her due.

“My dear Madame Maxine,” Dumbledore said, descending the steps and kissing Maxine’s glittering hand. He was uncommonly tall and still he barely had to bend to do so. “Welcome to Hogwarts.”

“Dumbly-dorr,” Maxime said in a deep voice. “I ‘ope I find you well?”

“In excellent form, I thank you,” Dumbledore said.

“My pupils,” Maxime said, waving a hand carelessly behind her.

Harry narrowed his eyes slightly as he examined the Beauxbatons students, about a dozen girls and boys in their late teens and all dressed in powder blue gold-trimmed robes. Several of them looked exceedingly cold in their thin silk robes and cloakless uniforms. The locations of the other schools remained secret, but Harry could make an educated guess Beauxbatons was in the south of France.

“’As Karkaroff arrived yet?” Maxime said.

Malfoy twitched very slightly. If Harry hadn’t been standing right next to him, he’d never have caught it.

“He should be here any moment,” said Dumbledore. “Would you like to wait here and greet him or would you prefer to step inside and warm up a trifle?”

“Why does he have to talk like a madman?” Theo complained just loudly enough for Harry to hear.

“Warm up, I think,” said Maxime. “But ze ‘horses—”

“Our Care of Magical Creatures teacher will be delighted to take care of them,” Dumbledore said, “the moment he has returned from dealing with a slight situation that has arisen from some of his other—er—charges.”

“Skrewts,” Malfoy said in a quiet, disgusted voice. “The oaf should let them all eat each other, save us some burns.”

“My steeds require—er—forceful ‘andling,” Maxime said, looking doubtful that any Hogwarts teacher would be able to handle them. Harry looked at the horses—the lead one was now snorting actual fire out of its nostrils and two of the others were snapping viciously at each other—and decided that they’d require some forceful handling indeed.

“I assure you Hagrid will be up for the job,” Dumbledore said with a slight smile.

“Very well,” said Maxime, bowing slightly. “Will you please inform zis ‘Agrid zat ze ‘orses drink only single-malt whiskey?”

“They what now?” Daphne muttered.

“It will be attended to,” said Dumbledore, also bowing.

“Come,” said Maxime imperiously to her students, and the Hogwarts crowd split neatly down the middle, Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors on one side and Ravenclaws and Slytherins on the other, to allow them passage into the school.

“How big d’you reckon Durmstrang’s horses are going to be?” Harry heard Finnegan say as they shuffled together again. He shook his head as he listened to the Gryffindors speculate. As if Durmstrang or Beauxbatons would show up with the same mode of transport as the other. That was like putting a flashing sign above your head saying WE HAVE NO INGENUITY.

Even with the cloaks that were part of their uniform, the Hogwarts crowd was beginning to shiver in the gathering darkness by the time someone shouted “I hear something!” and they all went on alert for Durmstrang’s arrival.

Harry cocked his head and listened. The noise that drifted across the grounds was eerie: a muffled rumbling and sucking sound, as though something very, very large was stirring to life under the lake…

“The lake!” Lee Jordan shouted. “Look at the lake!”

From their position on the steps, the Hogwarts students could see clearly across the downward slope of the grounds and out across the smooth surface of the Black Lake. Except it wasn’t smooth anymore. Great bubbles formed on the surface, waves washed up over the muddy banks—and then, out in the middle, a whirlpool formed, first small and then rapidly expanding—

A long black pole rose slowly out of the heart of the whirlpool… and then Harry saw the rigging.

“A ship,” he said, impressed. He had to say Durmstrang had rather bested Beauxbatons for their arrival. The carriage was cool and dramatic, but it didn’t beat the kind of coordinated magical effort it would take to have pulled this off.

The ship had a strangely skeletal look, as if it were a resurrected wreck that had only been mostly repaired, and the dim, misty lights at its portholes gave away nothing about the inside. It rocked gently on the turbulent water as it began to glide toward the bank.

They all heard the splash of an anchor being thrown overboard, and then distant voices—

 _“Amplius visio,”_ Harry whispered as softly as he could, subtly aiming his wand at himself—

His vision blurred, then sharpened—he could feel an immediate headache forming, and ignored it, at the sudden wash of sensory information. Colors were too bright and movements too distracting and he could see so _far_ it didn’t seem to matter it was _dark_ —

Harry concentrated, focused, forced his attention to cling to one thing instead of darting everywhere and nowhere. The effort only made his headache worse, just like the first few times he tried _amplius auri_.

Two silhouettes crossed a near-invisible bridge from the edge of the ship to the lake’s bank. Harry squinted and willed his vision to zoom in closer: they’d transfigured or summoned what looked like a pure glass bridge to allow the ship’s inhabitants to reach the shore. The ship sat unnaturally still on the water.

People were disembarking, but Harry didn’t feel like worsening his headache to the point of a migraine, so he canceled the vision-amplifying spell with a sigh of relief. The return to normal limited human eyesight was jarring. He shifted his weight and blinked several times before equilibrium returned.

Sighing internally, Harry stuck a hand into his bag and rummaged around, too tired for a silent and wandless summoning charm, until he found a vial of the Headache Cure Potion he liked to carry around. He knocked it back with a slight grimace at the taste and vanished the vial with a wave of his wand.

Malfoy gaped at him. Harry belatedly realized he hadn’t spoken an incantation for his _evanesco_ , which was a sixth-year Transfiguration topic.

Too late now. He shot Malfoy an evil smirk and turned back to watch the approach of the Durmstrang students.

At first they all looked huge and bulky, built like Crabbe and Goyle minus some fat and plus two years and a few pounds of muscle. As they neared the castle, though, Harry realized it was because their uniforms consisted of heavy fur cloaks. It must really be cold wherever Durmstrang was.

“Dumbledore!” the man at the head of the procession shouted heartily. His hair was sleek and silver like his furs. “How are you, my dear fellow, how are you?”

“Blooming, thank you, Professor Karkaroff,” said Dumbledore.

Karkaroff. Harry knew that name—

“From where do I know that name?” he asked Daphne in a soft whisper.

“He was a Death Eater,” Daphne said softly. She was watching Karkaroff with something flat and hard in her eyes. “Flipped on the Dark Lord and gave up names to the Ministry.”

It came to Harry in a flash—he’d gone back through the Hogwarts library’s back issues of the Prophet once he came back to school, looking for mentions of Barty Crouch Jr. or Regulus Black. Regulus had only a paragraph mentioning his death due to “unknown causes” but there were absolute pages detailing Crouch’s crimes and trials. It had been Karkaroff who first named the younger Crouch a Death Eater.

Harry imagined that Barty Crouch Sr. didn’t like this man much.

Karkaroff was nearly as tall and thin as Dumbledore, with an unctuous voice and something dead in his eyes that made Harry dislike him immediately. On a sudden whim, he turned around and scanned the teachers in the back row: there was Moody, glaring straight at Karkaroff with both eyes full of relentless hatred.

“What’s with him?” he asked Daphne.

Daphne glanced over her shoulder. “Dark wizard catcher. He put Karkaroff away personally.”

“Ahhh,” Harry said. He didn’t think he’d like to cross wands with Karkaroff. If Moody had gone after him—this man, Harry would bet, was skilled with the Dark Arts. It’d be difficult to outfight him using only Light Ministry-approved spells.

Moody was dangerous, he was increasingly certain. More dangerous than any of Dumbledore’s other loyal cronies. He was the ideology of Crouch with the pragmatism to use his enemies’ tactics against them. Harry hated and distrusted Dumbledore. And, by extension, Moody.

Except he had a healthy fear of Moody, too, because by two months into the school year, and after twice-weekly lessons on some of the nastiest curses known to wizardkind, Harry knew Moody would stoop to tactics Dumbledore wouldn’t even contemplate if that was what it took to win.

“Dear old Hogwarts,” Karkaroff mused. “How good it is to be here, how good… Viktor, come along, into the warmth… You don’t mind, Dumbledore? Viktor has a slight head cold…”

Karkaroff beckoned one of his students forward. Harry felt the immediate interest that shot across the crowd like electricity: at least half of them instantly recognized that hawk-nosed, thick-browed profile.

“It’s _Krum_ ,” Malfoy whispered, awed.

Harry turned to watch the Durmstrang contingent pass up the steps and into the school. He warmed his robes with half a thought and studied first Krum and then the rest. It was clear Krum was the favored student; Karkaroff pandered to him rather blatantly while the rest trudged along. Harry caught distinct resentment in the way a few of the other Durmstrang kids looked at Krum—the competitors, he supposed, but there was a small set walking at the front of the line who didn’t show any resentment at all. Either they were better actors or Krum did have some people who didn’t hate him. Harry did his best to mark their faces.

Once the Durmstrang group got inside, the professors let the Hogwarts students break from their orderly lines and stream into the castle for dinner. Harry overheard Hermione scoffing at Ronald for his obvious hero-worship of Krum and tried not to smirk.

“Wonder where they’ll sit?” Theo said. “And sleep?”

“We’ve enough empty rooms for the elves to renovate some as guest quarters,” Pansy mused, “but they might just sleep on the ship or in the carriage.”

“The carriage isn’t big enough,” Bulstrode said. “Not for beds…”

Daphne shot the other girl a withering glare. “Magic, idiot. It’s probably loads bigger on the inside than on the outside.”

“Ohhhh,” Bulstrode said.

_Merlin give me patience._

“Look at those idiots,” Daphne sneered, glaring at a group of Ravenclaw sixth years scrabbling about for lipstick that Krum could sign their hats with. “Fawning over him just because he’s a brilliant Quidditch player… he’s not even handsome.”

“He’s fit enough,” Pansy said. “Bit harsh-looking…”

Harry and Theo shared a glance and lagged back, letting the girls go on ahead while debating Krum’s looks.

“Girls,” Theo muttered.

Blaise grinned. “Like you’re any better, I saw you checking out the Beauxbatons ladies’ legs under those robes.”

“They’re _silk_ ,” Theo said. “It’s not hiding much.”

Harry had been expecting to see the Great Hall modified to fit two more tables for their guests, but for some reason there were still only on the four House tables plus the staff table. They were really going for that whole building-rapport-between-the-schools thing, then, if they expected to force the visitors to find seats in the Great Hall.

Where would they sit, indeed.

Harry elbowed Theo to get his attention and very deliberately sat down next to Malfoy, with maybe a little more room between them than he would’ve left otherwise. Theo took the hint and did the same on Harry’s other side and Blaise gracefully took a seat across from them.

“What are you planning?” Theo said.

“We’re leaving room so we can potentially allow our visitors to sit with us,” Blaise said, as Daphne and Pansy sat down with them. “Should they choose to.”

“We’re fourth years,” Malfoy said. “Why would they—”

“You met Krum,” Harry reminded him. “At the Cup. And you’re not exactly inconspicuous with that hair of yours. People gravitate towards the familiar… I’m betting there’s better than equal odds of Krum joining us, and I suspect most of Durmstrang will follow his lead.”

“Plus, Durmstrang teaches the Dark Arts,” Daphne said softly. “Which fits our House’s reputation.”

Harry grinned. “Exactly.”

And when the Durmstrang group walked into the Great Hall, carrying their furs over their arms, Krum only paused for a moment, his dark eyes sweeping over the Hogwarts students, before they fixed on Malfoy and he started over towards the Slytherin table.

 _Got you_ , Harry thought with an internal smirk.

“Malfoy, is it not?” Krum said, pausing near them.

“Yes,” Malfoy said, standing gracefully, every inch the pureblood heir. “Heir of House Malfoy.”

“Vell met,” Krum said. Four of the other Durmstrang students, those Harry had marked as not visibly resenting him, paused with him; the others spread out along the Slytherin table with a few joining the Ravenclaws. “May ve join you?”

“Of course,” Malfoy said, with a sneaky sideways glance at Harry as he sat back down.

The group shifted to accommodate the new arrivals. Pansy looked delighted when one of the Durmstrang boys sat next to her. Harry hoped she didn’t eat him alive. Daphne ignored them all and Blaise managed his usual elegant grace and Theo grinned at all of them.

“Vould you mind introducing us to your friends, Heir Malfoy?” one of the other boys said.

Malfoy smirked, obviously enjoying being the center of attention. “Certainly. Hadrian Potter, Heir of House Potter. Theodore Nott, Heir of House Nott.”

“Theo,” Theo said instantly, “call me Theo or Nott but never Theodore.”

“Daphne Greengrass, Heir of House Greengrass,” Malfoy said, and Daphne raised one of her fingers dismissively. “The lovely Pansy Parkinson, Heir of House Parkinson.” Pansy gave them a slow, curling smile that had several Durmstrang boys and one of the girls eyeing her speculatively. Harry found it difficult to look away from her lips himself. “Blaise Zabini, Heir of the Italian House Zabini. Gregory Goyle, Heir of House Goyle. Millicent Bulstrode, of House Bulstrode. Vincent Crabbe, of House Crabbe. Everyone, this is Viktor Krum, Heir of the Bulgarian House of Krum.”

“An impressive group,” the boy between Malfoy and Harry said smoothly. He was the thinnest of their guests, and judging by their physiques, the only one who was not an athlete of some kind.

“Vell met,” Krum repeated, nodding around the group. “If I may—this is Niklas Istvan of the Hungarian House of Istvan, Jacob Henriksen, Timur Mishin, and Simon Abramovitz of the Russian House of Abramovitz.” As he introduced the young men with him, he gestured in turn to the skinny boy next to Harry, a stocky one Pansy seemed interested in, a boy sitting on Theo’s other side who had yet to speak, and finally the boy sitting between Krum and Daphne. Harry was especially interested in Henriksen and Mishin. The way Krum introduced them told Harry they were either Muggle-born or halfbloods from wizarding families that weren’t considered the foreign equivalents of British Noble or Ancient and Noble Houses.

“Well met,” Blaise said, and the greeting was echoed around the table.

“So,” Theo said, smirking. “Be honest—what do you all think of Hogwarts so far?”

Their guests exchanged some glances. “It is… varmer than home,” Henriksen said. “You have more vindows.”

“And more students,” Istvan added, looking around the crowded and noisy Great Hall. “Who are wearing ze robes vith red and gold?”

“The Gryffindors,” Harry said, looking distastefully at the table on the opposite side of the Great Hall. The downside of sitting with his back to the wall was that the Gryffindors were right there for him to look at, and most of them had appalling table manners.

“They seem… loud,” Krum said.

“They are,” Blaise agreed. “Unpleasantly so. We’re friends with a few of the decent Gryffindors, but mostly…”

“This House system interests me,” Mishin said, leaning forward. He shot a blindingly white and slightly crooked smile around the table. “Are you allowed to explain how it vorks?”

Theo’s eyes lit up, and he jumped right into an explanation.

Harry took a few seconds to look over the staff table, which was now decorated even more ornately than usual. Karkaroff was seated by Snape and looked unhappy while Snape was eating his steak like he wished it was still alive so he’d have something to murder. Ludo Bagman and Bartemius Crouch Sr. were seated near Dumbledore and Maxime had a place near Hagrid. As usual, Crouch looked like he had a massive iron pole up his ass and Bagman seemed to have stopped mentally aging at fourteen. They’d planned the Tournament; stood to reason they’d want to be here to greet their guests.

He checked on Moody last. The paranoid Defense teacher was drinking out of his silver hip flask, that electric blue eye rolling nonstop. It seemed to shift over in Karkaroff’s direction more often than one would think.

Harry really hoped Karkaroff and Moody kept each other occupied so he wouldn’t have to deal with either.

 

_Hermione_

“Ronald is going to give me the worst headache of my life at this rate,” Hermione complained.

Neville patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. He was growing, and lately he seemed to do everything awkwardly. Hermione did not especially care, and would not have noticed, except he was her friend, so she bothered to pay attention to him. “He’ll calm down,” Neville said.

Ronald sat down and turned to gape at the Durmstrang crowd, hovering near the doors. The Beauxbatons group had already claimed seats mixed in with the Ravenclaw upper years.

Hermione scanned the Slytherin table until she found her friends, almost exactly in the middle. Harry was in his calculating mode, which most people wouldn’t recognize under his excellent façade, but Hermione knew him well enough to pick it out and also notice that his attention was trained on the Durmstrang crew.

His Slytherin brain was probably going a mile a minute about all the advantages you could get from being friends with a celebrity. Hermione thought it was all rather silly, and tried to tune out Ronald, Jules, Seamus, and Dean’s inane conversation about Quidditch stats as they all sat down at the table. It was a _sport_. Krum displayed considerable skill which required years of work and dedication to achieve, and that was admirable, but not worth chasing him down to _get one’s hat signed in lipstick_.

Honestly.

“I’m getting his autograph if I can,” Ronald declared. He was so loud that Hermione sighed and gave up her efforts to ignore them. Across the table, Neville propped his head on his hand and sighed.

“Has anyone got a quill?” Seamus said, looking around eagerly. “C’mon, Hermione, I know you’ve got one, you’re such a swot—”

“I’m a swot who doesn’t loan things to people who call me names,” Hermione said frigidly, and turned sharply away from him.

She’d meant to just engage Neville in a conversation about— _something_ , maybe even _small talk_ (which she hated) if that’s what it took to get the message across to her idiotic year mates, but her attention was caught by Krum moving decisively away from the doorway towards the Slytherin table.

A flicker of satisfaction crossed Harry and Theo’s faces at almost the same instant. Hermione sighed. This was going to make Ronald insufferable.

“Yeah, that’s right, smarm up to him, Malfoy,” Ronald said scathingly. Neville twisted in his seat to watch as Malfoy stood and greeted Krum, smirking. Hermione studied the interactions, mentally reviewing the proper forms of greeting Malfoy would use to introduce his fellow Slytherins, then how Krum and his fellows would respond… “I bet Krum can see right through him, though… bet he gets people fawning over him all the time… Where d’you reckon they’re going to sleep? We could offer him a space in our dormitory, Jules… I wouldn’t mind giving him my bed, I could kip on a camp bed.”

“Like you’d be any different from Malfoy if you did that,” Neville said. Hermione tried and probably failed to hide her surprise, since she wasn’t nearly as good at hiding her emotions as the Slytherins. Neville was biting his lip almost before he finished talking, but his left hand, she could see, was clenched into a determined fist.

Ronald turned red. “What are you talking about?”

“You said—smarm up to him—like you’d do anything else,” Neville repeated. He was reddening too, but he didn’t back down. Hermione approved. She’d always known Neville had Gryffindor spine in him, but it was hard for him to use it sometimes. “Offer him a space in our dorm—really? He’d see right through _you_ too.”

“I’m not _smarmy!_ ” Ronald almost shouted. “Not like that git Malfoy—he’s such a prat, and an idiot—”

“He’s not an idiot,” Hermione said. She almost wanted to take the words back, but really—Ronald could insult who he wanted as long as he didn’t lie to do it. Hermione didn’t like lying unless there was a good reason. This was just living in denial.

“How would _you_ know?” Seamus demanded. “He’s the worst blood purist out of that whole slimy lot—like he’d talk to you other than curse you!”

“For your information, I know because he’s consistently in the top students of our year, and he beats _you_ lot by a mile,” Hermione said, glaring fiercely at them. She could feel her hair bushing out around her head like it always did when she got angry. Even with the Gryffindors, who liked to think they were so open-minded and nice, it came down to blood purity. “And he’s been perfectly civil to me for some time now. At least Malfoy grew out of his immature, petty prejudices.” _Unlike you_ , she wanted to add.

“I doubt it,” Jules muttered. “Hermione, he’s probably playing you—he’d be embarrassed to talk to you in public—”

“Please,” she scoffed, and looked up, focusing intently across the Great Hall at the Slytherins. They were observant; one of them would catch on quick.

Theo, sitting at Harry’s left, was the first to notice. He winked at her. She held up two fingers and pointed to her left, Theo’s right.

He got the hint and elbowed Harry, muttering something. Harry looked up. His bright green eyes caught on Hermione’s for a half a second and he said something to the table. Krum, Malfoy, the boy sitting in between Malfoy and Harry, and the one sitting next to Krum all turned and looked over.

Hermione smiled and waved, using a polite, contained gesture Daphne had taught her instead of the overenthusiastic flailing her eleven-year-old self would’ve gone with. Harry smiled in her direction with genuine amusement and Malfoy raised his goblet in a sort of haughty greeting. She knew the blond well enough by now to recognize the haughtiness as just his way so she didn’t take offense and just returned to her meal.

Jules stared at her. So did his friends. Neville just rolled his eyes and shoveled mashed potatoes into his mouth.

“Malfoy just waved at her,” Seamus said, disbelieving. “Has Harry got him under the Imperius or something?”

“Hey, that’s my brother,” Jules said, looking uncomfortable. “Harry wouldn’t…”

“I can’t believe Malfoy just waved at a Mud—a Muggle-born,” Ronald echoed.

“Watch it,” Neville growled, suddenly angry.

Hermione shot a nasty glare Ronald’s direction, but didn’t say anything. She _hated_ it. Such a turnaround—after second year, when she bothered to pay attention to the customs of this world and emulate them, the purebloods of Slytherin and Ravenclaw had accepted her and quit being bigoted prats with a few exceptions. She’d been pleasantly surprised that her friends were telling the truth and no one expected her to change her principles. Yet here was _Ronald Weasley_ of Gryffindor who still almost used the filthy slur on her.

She loved her House, but she could see why Harry’s Slytherin crew disliked so many Gryffindors from the start.

“Like I said,” Hermione said, “he’s been perfectly civil of late.”

“Perfectly civil of late,” Dean mimicked. He grinned at her, and Hermione thought he hadn’t meant to be cruel, but Seamus laughed unkindly.

“Such a swot,” he added.

Ronald sniggered. “She probably uses language like that ‘cause she thinks it’s funny to make us look stupid…”

“Ron,” Jules sighed.

Hermione stabbed a bit viciously at her salad. “I don’t have to make you look stupid, Ronald, you do that just fine on your own.”

Neville coughed across the table, badly covering up his laugh.

Merlin help her, it actually took Ronald a few seconds to realize he’d been insulted. His face grew red with sudden realization. “Hey!”

Hermione focused resolutely on Neville. “How is your gran doing, Neville? I heard she was going to some art gallery opening hosted by the Ministry this month?”

“Y-yes,” Neville said, thrown by the change of topic. “Er… some up-and-coming artist from Edinburgh… I didn’t pay much attention…”

“Isn’t it some kind of charity gala?”

“I think—for the St. Mungo’s Children’s Ward?”

Hermione and Neville only dropped the painful conversation when Ronald and Seamus and Jules went back to talking Quidditch. Dean shot Hermione apologetic eyes from his seat. She smiled faintly at him, but couldn’t bring herself to really forgive. He might be sorry but he wouldn’t stand up to his friends’ idiocy either. Hermione almost had a harder time understanding that than she did Ronald and Seamus. Those two didn’t even realize what they were doing or saying was wrong or stupid or narrow-minded half the time. Dean got it and he still did nothing. Sometimes she wondered why the hat even put him in Gryffindor.

She suspected she’d be eating a lot of meals in the kitchens this year. Thank Merlin Harry finally caved and told her how to get in. It would be a good opportunity to verify what she’d read about house-elves and make sure that Hogwarts was living up to the customary standards of treatment for them. Hermione really wanted to pass legislation to translate that custom into law… but she was fourteen, and for now she’d just do research and prepare her arguments. Daphne had shouted at her to maybe actually _talk_ to the house-elves and get their feedback before she went on some crusade to require that they be paid wages, which she’d grudgingly admitted was a good idea.  

Ronald and Jules moved on to discussing whether the Durmstrang students were drawn to Slytherin because of that House’s reputation for using Dark magic. Hermione stayed out of it, but as she watched Harry and Theo and Malfoy (her other friends’ backs were to her) interact with Krum and his friends, as she watched Harry in particular modulate every word and expression and gesture and reaction, she thought it was probably true. She wasn’t an idiot. Some of the books they loaned her were _really_ illegal. She’d sucked it up and read them because she liked knowing things, and discovered that plenty of illegal magic wasn’t really “Dark” and only illegal because it was powerful or dangerous, and that plenty of illegal Dark magic had its uses. There was one spell that could stop someone’s blood flow, and you could use it to kill, obviously, but you could also save someone’s life if you kept them from bleeding out. But because it was “Dark” it was illegal even for trained mediwitches and mediwizards at St. Mungo’s. The whole thing was ridiculous.

Hermione had suspected for years that her Slytherin friends dabbled in Dark magic, and decided not to care as long as they didn’t hurt anyone. She would extend the same courtesy to the newcomers and not judge before they gave her something to judge by.

They were mostly done with dinner when Dumbledore stood up and waved his arms for silence.

“The moment has come,” Dumbledore said, smiling around. Hermione examined him critically and wondered how a man so genial-looking could have done something so unjust as knowingly pack an innocent man into a hellhole for over a decade. “The Triwizard Tournament is about to start. I would like to say a few words of explanation before we bring in the casket just to clarify the procedure that we will be following this year. But first, let me introduce, for those who do not know them, Mr. Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation—” a smattering of applause that Hermione joined in on out of politeness— “and Mr. Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports.”

Much more applause. Hermione rolled her eyes. People were so awed by athletes. It was slightly ridiculous. Bagman wasn’t even capable.

“Mr. Bagmand and Mr. Crouch have worked tirelessly on the arrangements for the Triwizard Tournament, and they will be joining myself, Professor Karkaroff, and Madame Maxime on the panel that will judge the champions’ efforts.”

The assembled students perked up at the word ‘champions’.

“The casket, then, if you please, Mr. Filch.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. She was very eager to see exactly what they used as a judge of who got to be Champion for each school.

Filch approached from a dark corner where he’d been lurking unnoticed. He held an ancient-looking jewel-encrusted wooden chest. Dennis Creevey actually stood on his bench to see over everyone’s heads.

“The instructions for the tasks the champions will face this year have already been examined by Mr. Crouch and Mr. Bagman, and they have made the necessary arrangements for each challenge,” Dumbledore went on. Filch placed the chest carefully on a podium. “There will be three tasks, spaced throughout the school year, and they will test the champions in many different ways… their magical prowess—their daring—their powers of deduction—and, of course, their ability to cope with danger.”

The silence in the Hall was more absolute than Hermione had ever heard it.

“As you know, three champions compete in the tournament, one from each school. They will be marked on how well they perform in each task and the champion with the highest total after the third task will win the Triwizard Cup. The champions will be chosen by an impartial selector: the Goblet of Fire.”

Dumbledore tapped the lid of the chest three times with his wand. The lid creaked slowly open. Dumbledore pulled out a large, roughly hewn wooden cup that would’ve been unremarkable if it wasn’t full to the brim with dancing blue-white flames.

The goblet was placed carefully on top of the casket.

“Anybody wishing to submit themselves as a champion must write their name and school clearly upon a slip of parchment and drop it into the goblet,” Dumbledore said. “Aspiring champions have twenty-four hours in which to put their names forward. Tomorrow night, Halloween, the goblet will return the names of the three it has judged most worthy to represent their schools. The goblet will be placed in the entrance hall tonight, where it will be freely available to those wishing to compete.

“To ensure no underage student yields to temptation, I will be drawing an Age Line around the Goblet of Fire. Nobody under the age of seventeen will be able to cross this line.

“Finally, I wish to impress upon any of you wishing to compete that this tournament is not to be entered into lightly. Once a champion has been selected by the goblet of Fire, he or she is obliged to see the tournament through to the end. The placing of your name in the goblet constitutes a binding, magical contrac.t There can be no change of heart once you have become a champion. Please be very sure, therefore, that you are wholeheartedly prepared to play before you drop your name into the goblet. Now, I think it is time for bed. Good night to you all.”

Everyone began to make their way out of the hall. Hermione ignored the Weasley twins talking about how to beat the age line. “Knights Room?” she asked Neville, since their common room was sure to be raucous and unconducive to studying.

“Yes,” he said, looking relieved. Hermione smiled at him and Neville grinned back. He really was a sweet boy. Smarter than most people gave him credit for, too. They had an essay for Sprout due in a few days and Hermione’d love to get started on it with him…

They got to the doors out of the Hall with Jules and Dean at the same time as Karkaroff and a pack of Durmstrang students. Not Krum, Hermione noticed—he and two other boys in furs were lingering with Malfoy, Harry, Daphne, Pansy, Blaise, and Theo.

Jules and Dean paused to let Karkaroff go first. Hermione and Neville followed their lead.

“Thank you,” Karkaroff said with a careless glance their way—and then he froze.

Staring at them.

At Jules, actually.

Several people pointed at his scar.

Hermione wanted to yell at all of them to leave Jules alone, that they shouldn’t goggle at him for something he couldn’t even remember doing and no one could explain. He seemed to enjoy the attention, though.

She caught sight of Harry, who was watching all this calculatingly. 

“Yep, that’s Jules Potter,” someone growled.

Hermione turned around and found Moody stumping up behind them, both eyes glaring at Karkaroff. She wasn’t sure what to think about the Defense professor—he seemed very knowledgeable and she was learning loads in his class, but the Slytherins’ concerns about him were valid. And she thought there was nothing Dumbledore could do to redeem himself in her eyes, and Moody was Dumbledore’s man like Hagrid and Lupin, so she wouldn’t trust him.

The color drained from Karkaroff’s face. “You!” he said.

 _And how did you not see him sitting at the staff table?_ Hermione thought witheringly.

“Me,” Moody said grimly. “And unless you’ve got anything to say to Potter, Karkaroff, you might want to move. You’re blocking the doorway.”

Without another word, Karkaroff swept out, several of his students following. Moody stared after him. Hermione found herself momentarily frightened by the look of intense dislike on his mutilated face.

The flow of students out the doors resumed.

“Oh, bugger,” she sighed suddenly, halfway across the entrance hall. “I left my textbook under my bench—no, it’s all right, Neville, go on, I’ll meet you there—”

“I’ll work on Snape’s antidote project until you get there,” Neville said. “Oh, and be careful when you come in, Harry said his and Theo’s latest potions experiment’s a bit delicate and apparently there’s no loud noises allowed in there right now.”

“Sounds good,” she said, and then Hermione turned around and fought her way back into the Great Hall against the tide of students leaving it. Unfortunately, none of those students was Ronald: he was still sitting at his place at the Gryffindor table with Seamus. Near everyone else had left already.

Hermione tried to be surreptitious about finding her book, but she wasn’t good at _subtle_ and Ronald broke off whatever inanity had been dripping out of his mouth to say, “Oh no, can’t forget her book! Hermione’s greatest fear is an _overdue library book!”_

Hermione scowled at him. Her boggart had been nothing of the kind, but she wasn’t about to tell him what it _really_ was. “Better than spiders,” she said loftily. “One little scuttling insect the size of your thumbnail and you look like you’re about to vomit.”

He and Seamus glared. She ignored them and hurried back out of the hall.

“Hermione!”

She checked her strides without thinking and looked around—

Blaise had been the one to call out, grinning lazily at her. He, Pansy, and Harry were standing with Krum and two of his friends.

Hermione headed over to them, grinning at her friends. “Yes?”

“Have you met Viktor yet?” Blaise said.

“I haven’t had the pleasure,” Hermione said, turning a more subdued smile on the Durmstrang students. “Well met. Hermione Granger, of the nonmagical family Granger.” She deliberately avoided the formality of having Harry, Malfoy, Blaise, or Pansy introduce her; it was an air the Greengrasses admitted only certain families still bothered with and she didn’t like letting other people do things for her. Even tell a new acquaintance her name.

“Vell met,” Krum said. “Viktor Krum of the Bulgarian House of Krum.”

The other two were Niklas Istvan from Hungary, and Jacob Henriksen, who Hermione was intrigued to hear introduce himself without any kind of family handle or House affiliation. Muggle-born, then, or a halfblood from a no-account family. How interesting. She’d heard bad things about the Durmstrang treatment of Muggle-borns.

“We have heard good things about you, Miss Granger,” Istvan said. He seemed like the charming not-an-athlete-and-doesn’t-care type to flirt with everything on legs, and his English wasn’t nearly as accented as the others’ had been. Hermione liked him immediately. “I understand some of you have a particular project in progress involving arithmancy and runes and spell creation?”

“The notebooks?” Hermione said.

Harry nodded. “Theo mentioned it, so we explained a bit.”

“Niklas and I do arithmancy… well,” Mishin said, faltering a bit over his grammar. “Ve vould be very interested to discuss this project, if you vould allow it?”

Hermione grinned at them. She _loved_ finding new people who were willing to talk about academic things. Having multiple perspectives was _always_ good. “Of course—Neville and I were going to study, but—Harry, maybe we could all meet up to work tomorrow?”

“Knights Room at ten?” Harry said.

Hermione ran over her mental schedule. She was doing transfiguration practice from eight to nine and working on her History of Magic essay from nine to ten, but the essay was mostly finished anyway, so she could edit a little less to make it to the Knights Room. Or just get up earlier. “Works for me.”

“I’ll pass it on to Daphne and Theo,” Harry said. “Will you tell Justin if you see him?”

“Definitely.”

Malfoy looked intensely curious. Hermione tried not to smirk at him. Their chess games were happening two or three times a week, and he was actually really smart and he could be fun to talk to, but she just couldn’t stop needling him. She knew he wouldn’t ask what the Knights Room was in front of the guests for fear of looking like he didn’t know his own school, but he was nearly dying of curiosity. He knew what she was doing, too, and he scowled at her.

“I am afraid ve may get lost in this castle,” Krum said. “May someone meet us in the entrance hall?”

“We can,” Blaise said, gesturing to the Slytherins. “We come through here anyway.”

“Don’t ask for directions,” Pansy added. “It’s a bit of a secret.”

Harry shot Hermione a wink and took pity on Malfoy. “Want to come?” he asked the blond. “You’re not in arithmancy or runes, I know, but if the project interests you…”

Huh. Hermione hadn’t quite expected Harry to include Malfoy this much this soon, but then again, Harry did things his own way and half the time she didn’t bother to even try and untangle all his motives and thoughts and calculations. Their brains just worked differently. She didn’t mind Malfoy coming, as long as he was civil, so she didn’t say anything.

“Might as well,” Malfoy said, affecting disinterest.

“We can meet you lot here at quarter till?” Pansy suggested.

The Durmstrang boys looked briefly confused.

“Quarter till means a quarter of an hour till the new hour,” Hermione explained.

“Ah,” Istvan said. “So… nine forty-five?”

 “Yes,” she said, liking him more. The Durmstrang boys used their brains.

“It’s a date,” Istvan said, winking at her.

Hermione rolled her eyes. Honestly. All this flirting was slightly ridiculous. Boys were boys and girls were girls and she wasn’t about to be won over by pretty words and empty gestures. “If that helps you sleep at night, sure,” she said indifferently. “I have an essay I was hoping to work on tonight, though, so I should go. It was lovely to meet you all.”

“And you, Miss Granger,” Krum said.

There was a softness in his dark eyes that she wouldn’t have expected, Hermione mused as the other two handled the niceties as well.

“Look at the insufferable swot, fawning all over him! And she laughed at _me_.”

Harry’s expression got very dark for a very short period of time before he controlled himself. Hermione had only seen that expression on his face twice before, one of which had been in the Shrieking Shack at the end of third year and another of which had been at James’ trial. She should probably be worried that he was that irritated by Ronald… but frankly, Ronald was very irritating and deserved to be taken down a peg or three.

“Who is _that?”_ Krum said, staring.

Obviously, there was no help for it, so Hermione sighed and turned around.

Ronald and Seamus were glaring at their whole group, Harry, Malfoy, and Hermione in particular. “My House mates,” she said with another sigh. “Ronald Weasley and Seamus Finnegan.”

Malfoy glanced at her for half a second, obviously catching that she hadn’t bothered to introduce Ronald properly with all the _House Weasley_ nonsense. It was a deliberate snub and Ronald didn’t even notice it, to her irritation.

The two boys seemed nervous about coming closer, though, obviously held off by their awe of Krum, for which Hermione was grateful. She turned her back on them resolutely. “They’re not very charming,” she added.

“Hardly,” Blaise muttered. “That story I told about tossing wine in someone’s face? That someone was the redhead.”

“Ah,” Krum said, making a face.

“I’ve really got to go,” she said apologetically, “I’d like to get a jump on Sprout’s essay—our Herbology teacher,” she explained.

“Would you mind if I accompanied you?” Malfoy said.

The Durmstrang boys didn’t seem to notice that this was odd, but Pansy and Blaise both raised their eyebrows and Harry, though he mostly hid it, was surprised as well.

“I… suppose,” Hermione said, glancing at Harry. He mostly controlled who had access to the Knights Room, which she supposed was his right since he’d found it, and he’d invited Malfoy up there for tomorrow, but still. She felt like she should check. He nodded minutely.

“I’ve been having a bit of difficulty in Herbology of late and you and Longbottom both score well in that class,” Malfoy explained.

“Sure,” Hermione agreed.

Malfoy neatly excused himself. “What’s the Knights Room?” he said.

“A private spot,” Hermione said. They started walking off; he followed in her wake on the way to the staircase. “Harry found it second year, put a password on it and convinced Fred and George to use shrinking spells on some furniture to get it through the door. It’s our meeting place now. And the dueling club uses it on Fridays.”

“Dueling club?” Malfoy echoed. “And—wait, Potter was casting wards with passwords in _second year?”_

“We both were,” Hermione said. “And the dueling club’s just… an informal thing. Fridays after class. Some of the older Slytherins come.”

“Why have I never heard of this?” Malfoy complained.

Hermione sighed. “Because you’re a prat and no one ever invited you.”

He was quiet for a few seconds.

“Am I invited now?”

Hermione considered this. “Maybe. Ask Harry, he’s kind of in charge. Do you really need help with Herbology or are you just trying to find out what the Knights Room is so you see it before Krum and his lot tomorrow?”

Malfoy surprised her by laughing. He had kind of a harsh laugh, which made her think this was a real laugh—he was too concerned with appearances to not have a nicely modulated fake laugh at the ready. Harry and Blaise and Pansy all did. “You’ve been hanging out in the snake den for too long, Granger. Gryffindors don’t think like that.”

“ _I_ don’t, but I can predict how _you_ think,” she said, smirking.

Malfoy shook his head, but the silence after that was… less tense.

“Oh, look, it’s the Mudblood and the Death Eater.”

Hermione froze. Malfoy kept on walking a step before he realized she wasn’t with him. “Granger, come on.”

She turned around, glaring at Ronald. “What did you call us?”

“A Mudblood,” Ronald said, pointing at her, and then he switched his finger to Malfoy. “And a Death Eater.”

“Oh for Merlin’s sake,” Malfoy said, yanking up the sleeve of his robe to bare his left forearm. “Look, Weasley, no Dark Mark. Ergo, not a bloody Death Eater.” He dropped his voice to a whisper that Ronald and Seamus, ten meters away, wouldn’t hear. “Granger, we can get them back later—I don’t want to lose House points—”

“—they started it—”

“—yeah, and you think the professors listen to a Slytherin? They take points no matter what I do—or turn me into a bloody _ferret_ —”

“He called me a Mudblood,” Hermione seethed. “I’m not backing down!”

Malfoy pinched his nose. “I’m going to regret this. I’m backing up a Gryffindor in a Gryffindorish conflict. My life is terrible.”

“It is _not_ you spoiled prat,” she hissed.

Ronald and Seamus were close enough to catch the end of the whispered argument. “Ooohhh, trouble in paradise?” Seamus mocked.

“If we were in paradise, we wouldn’t be seeing your ugly mug,” Malfoy drawled. His hands were casually in his pockets but Hermione was pretty sure his wand was in his hand, ready to be drawn any second. Hers was in the wand holster that was a gift from Harry and it would pop out if she flicked her wrist.

Seamus glowered.

“I don’t see how it makes me a traitor to be associating with someone from another House,” Hermione said.

“You’ve been friends with Slytherins for years and we let it be,” Ronald said, “until you befriended _that_ Slytherin.”

“I wouldn’t call this a friendship,” Malfoy drawled. “We’re not even on a first-name basis. More like… we have shared interests.”

_We do?_

“You’re _associating_ with him, to use your swot words,” Seamus said, “and that’s bad enough. He’s a bloody Death Eater’s kid, Hermione—his dad would kill you in the middle of Diagon Alley if he could—”

“Don’t insult my father like that,” Malfoy suddenly hissed. Hermione had long since filed away for future use the observation that he became very easily riled when you insulted his family. “He’s ten times the wizard you’ll ever be, Weasley.”

“At least I’m not a _murderer_ ,” Ronald said, red with anger. “At least I’m not evil.”

“Can you leave us alone already?” Hermione demanded. “If you keep insulting me and my friends, Ronald, I’m going to hex you.”

“With some Dark magic you learned from your slimy Slytherin friends?” Seamus mocked.

“I can do plenty of damage using Wingardium Leviosa to bash you into the ceiling,” Hermione said, her voice deadly calm. She _really_ did not like being called a Mudblood. “I wonder how long it would take to get through your thick skulls that _you don’t get to call me that?”_

Her voice had risen to a shriek by the end of this, and all three of the boys looked taken aback.

“If you’re quite finished?” Malfoy sneered.

Hermione almost turned on him, too, until she realized he was looking at the Gryffindor boys, not her.

Neither of them said a word, so Malfoy practically dragged her off down the corridor. Hermione’s hands were shaking in rage.

“Maybe it’s not a good plan for me to ask Harry when they all learn nasty illegal curses,” Hermione growled. “I’d be too tempted to use one on Ronald one of these days.”

“Sure you’re a Gryffindor, Granger?” Malfoy said, smirking. “Honestly, you lot aren’t usually that vindictive…”

“Shut up, Malfoy, for your information, the Hat ruled Slytherin out almost as fast as it did Hufflepuff for me.”

“Draco.”

She stared at him. “What?”

He rolled his eyes and yanked on her elbow to get her moving again. “I don’t know the way to this Knights Room, so keep up. I said, Draco. We play chess three times a week and apparently your Gryffindor cronies like you almost as much as they like me, we might as well be using first names by now.”

Hermione turned this over in her head for a few seconds. Switching from _Miss Granger_ and _Mr. Malfoy_ to just Granger and Malfoy had been an indication of some degree of either familiarity or disdain, depending on the circumstances. She’d thought it was familiarity, especially after he found out they were more or less perfectly matched at chess, but this confirmed it.

He’d been decent lately. Better company than the idiots in her year in Gryffindor, at least—why all the decent lions except Neville turned out to be older or younger than Hermione she had no idea. She blamed Ronald most days, Jules some.

“All right,” she said. “Draco.”


	12. Connections and Champions

_Harry_

He badgered Blaise and Theo out of bed early, cast a strong Notice-Me-Not on Eriss before draping her under his robes, and hauled them up to the entrance hall to watch people put their names in. Theo complained and Blaise glared until they saw the Weasley twins end up punted across the hall and then given magnificent beards, at which point both of Harry’s friends agreed it was worth it.

He congratulated Angelina Johnson when she put her name in and cheered Cassie Warrington and Miles Bletchley with the other Slytherins in sight as they pulled out parchment to write their names down.

“Morning, Potter,” Hestia said, sauntering up to them. Flora stalked along at her elbow. “Nott, Zabini.”

“Carrows,” he said with a flourishing bow. Hestia smirked and Flora rolled her eyes.

“Wish we were seventeen,” Hestia said bitterly, watching a Hufflepuff girl drop her paper in the goblet and scurry away.

Blaise sighed. “Can’t have everything, I suppose. Hopefully it’ll be Warrington or Bletchley. Did Montague go through with it?”

“Last night,” Flora said.

Hestia shook her head. “If that Goblet chooses him, it’s an idiot, because so is Montague. Still, at least we’d have a Slytherin.”

“Some Gryffindors are decent…” Harry said.

Jules and Ronald came down the staircase and they distinctly heard Jules jeer, “Wouldn’t it be horrible to have a Slytherin champion?” as Bletchley put his paper in.

“…and those two are not the examples,” Blaise finished Harry’s sentence.

Theo yawned. “I need coffee,” he said. “Can we go?”

“Fine by me.” Harry followed him into the Great Hall and sat down for breakfast.

 

They met in the entrance hall at nine forty-five as planned, Malfoy still a slightly awkward addition to a group of people who’d been friends for years, and all trooped up to the Knights Room together. Hermione and Justin were already there and Neville, Hermione said, would be coming along soon. Harry and Hermione and Istvan—Niklas, after he insisted on first names—spent an hour arguing about and discussing potions, and then Timur Mishin spoke up with a question from where he and Krum were going over the notebook project with Daphne and Justin and successfully distracted everyone for another two hours. Immense progress was made on the notebooks. Harry was fairly confident they’d be working how he wanted inside of a month.

Then Krum suggested dueling.

Harry kept his mean grin stubbornly on the inside. There was no doubt in his mind that an eighteen-year-old student from Durmstrang, where they had the Dark Arts and dueling as actual classes, would kick all their asses. But there was so much he could _learn_.

In three minutes of watching Mishin duel Niklas, Harry picked up on easily thirty new spells he wanted to research. Niklas, for all his lack of physical fitness, managed to hold off Theo and Blaise at once by virtue of being a superb dodger and casting silently. Then Krum turned around and bested Niklas by a decent margin and Mishin by a slightly narrower one.

“Hadrian,” Krum said. He refused to go by Harry’s nickname. Somehow three syllables was easier for him than two. “Vould you like to duel with me?”

“Sure,” Harry said, twirling his wand. He’d been using the ash more and more lately, and he’d brought it today, having anticipated this. It did better with darker magic than the holly. “Same rules?”

“Nothing ve cannot heal,” Krum agreed.

He and Harry took up positions at opposite ends of the dueling circle Hermione had traced on the ground with a chalk-writing spell. They bowed respectfully.

Harry was halfway risen from his bow when the first spell, a verbal temporary blinding curse, shot his way. He dodged and turned the motion into the first part of a banishing charm. Krum blocked it, and then Harry’s next two spells, middling Dark curses both.

 _He’s getting a feel for me_ was the last thing Harry thought before Krum switched to offense, and then he had no more time to think.

Almost without realizing it, Harry snapped into the clear-minded state of cool observation he’d been struggling to train himself into for years with Occlumency. It helped, a bit. He shot off curses faster than he ever had before and managed to deliberately Protego-deflect a few of Krum’s spells right back at him. The stone under their feet became pocked and scorched, half-covered in ice from one of Harry’s spells, and it was hard to keep his balance.

Krum switched to silent casting and so did Harry, although it limited his repertoire somewhat.

Finally, a _reducto_ made it through his Shield Charm and slammed into his chest. It was weakened by the _protego_ but still strong enough to send Harry flying back into the wall.

He woke up with a groan. Not more than a few seconds could’ve passed; Krum and the others were still hurrying over to him.

“You are uninjured?” Krum said.

“I’m going to feel that tomorrow,” Harry admitted, letting Theo haul him to his feet. “Actually, strike that, I feel it _now_.”

Theo elbowed him. Right in Harry’s sore ribs. “Get over it, you baby, that was _brilliant.”_

“You lasted near as long as Niklas,” Hermione said, grinning. “You practiced a lot last summer.”

“We keep—almost dying once a year,” Harry said, wincing as he found a new sore spot. “Seemed like a good idea… I think I’m going to sit out the rest of today.”

“Good idea,” Pansy muttered. “You look like shite.”

“Thanks, Pansy, you’re such an angel,” he said.

She smiled sweetly.

Harry rolled his eyes and collapsed into his favorite squishy chair, stifling a groan.

The others kept dueling. Krum and Niklas and Mishin took turns practicing with each other or calling out advice on tactics, not just spells used, while the others dueled. Even Neville took turns going against the other Hogwarts students once he arrived. Harry took notes, both mental and literal.

He joined back in when they decided to switch to spell practice. Krum, Mishin, and Niklas knew loads of curses and Dark spells Harry didn’t, having been able to legally study them for years, and the Slytherins were beside themselves with glee when they realized the Durmstrang students didn’t care one whit about sharing their knowledge. “You vill not be competing, it does not matter if ve share,” Mishin said with a shrug, and that was that.

Hermione narrowed her eyes when Theo oh-so-innocently offered to teach her a permanent and nasty blinding curse. “Why would you ever use that?” she said.

Theo shrugged. “It’s more powerful, and therefore harder to block. Has a better shot at punching through a shield than a temporary spell like the Krum shot at Harry.”

“Can you show me that, by the way?” Harry asked Krum. “I’ve never heard that incantation before.”

Krum obliged. “I am surprised you know _adfero caecus_ ,” he said to Theo. “It is forbidden here, no?”

“Yeah,” Theo said.

Daphne smirked. _“Really_ forbidden.”

Justin rolled his eyes at all of them. “This lot just doesn’t care so much about rules.”

“And you?” Mishin asked him, a bit suspiciously.

“A weapon’s a deterrent,” Justin said easily. “Basic principle of warfare. Muggle guns, a wand, Dark curses, blackmail, financial resources… If people know you’ve got it and you’re willing to use it, boom. Leverage.”

“What the hell,” Neville said. Malfoy’s mouth actually fell open as he stared at Justin.

Hermione squinted. “Justin, are you _sure_ you were Sorted right?”

Justin threw a pillow from his couch at her. “Yes, Hermione, very sure. I’m just saying I know how it _works_ , obviously I’d prefer never having to use the things I only learn as a deterrent. But like that blood-flow spell you found—loads of these things have practical applications. Don’t run around killing people willy-nilly and I won’t care what you learn.”

“Hufflepuff loyalty,” Blaise muttered so only Harry and Theo could hear.

Harry barely remembered to keep his smirk internal. “Indeed.”

“Ve should keep doing this,” Krum declared. “It vill be good practice for the Tournament, if von of us is chosen… and if not, it vill pass the time. If you are villing?”

He was looking at Harry. So, Harry realized, was everyone else.

That was a good feeling.

“Great,” he said, grinning. “Let’s keep a tally of how many times I get thrown into walls, yeah?”

“Four galleons that count goes higher than five before we go home for Yule,” Theo said instantly.

Harry dramatically wrote a chart on the wall in chalk to keep track of dueling victories. This prompted an argument about who’d won how many duels that went on for thirty minutes. Since he’d only been in the one, and lost, he just sat back and watched the fireworks and stroked Eriss as she lay coiled in his lap, relying on the chaos and the Notice-Me-Not to keep her hidden.

Niklas suddenly shouted something in Hungarian, and then switched to English: “Vat the fuck! Vere did the snake come from!”

_Well, fuck. Shouldn’t have relied so much on the charm._

Although, if Harry was being _completely_ honest, he’d been half-hoping they _would_ notice.

Theo and Blaise and Daphne and Neville, behind the Durmstrang students’ backs, raised their wands with identical half-vicious half-questioning looks on their faces.

Harry shook his head minutely. They quit threatening imminent bodily harm to their unaware opponents.

“My familiar,” he said. Krum and Mishin were tense as wires, though Niklas had regained his usual easy confidence. “Her name’s Eriss. I had her under a Notice-Me-Not—it must’ve worn off.”

“You keep her a secret,” Mishin said flatly.

“Obviously,” Theo said, flopping into a chair next to Harry.

Slowly, the others rejoined the circle. Hermione had her eyes narrowed and flicking between Eriss and Krum.

Mishin and Krum seemed to have some kind of silent battle before Krum sighed heavily and turned back to Harry. “Ve heard rumors, but did not vant to ask,” he said, his accent heavier now. “Are you a—how do you say in English—”

“Parselmouth?” Neville supplied. He and Justin both looked a bit bored with the proceedings.

“Yes,” Mishin said. “That.”

“I am,” Harry said. He made very sure his entire body was relaxed and his tone completely casual. “That a problem?”

“Vat? No,” Krum said. “It is—interesting? Fas—”

“Fascinating,” Niklas said.

“Yes.” Krum nodded. “I have never met a Parselmouth in person. It is a rare form of hereditary magic.”

They all looked like they were biting back the logical next question. Harry smirked and didn’t acknowledge it. He hadn’t even told anyone other than Neville, Theo, and Blaise, his three closest friends, that he was descended from Vincent Gaunt, of House Gaunt, last known descendants of Salazar Slytherin. So far he liked Krum and Mishin and Niklas, but that didn’t mean he was going to spill all his secrets.

And it was nice to have more people he didn’t have to hide Eriss from.

 

They ended up spending the entire day in the Knights Room, sharing magical knowledge and jokes and stories about their schools, and by the time the whole group realized it was time to go down for dinner (Timur and Niklas growing visibly nervous at this) they were all on a first-name basis.

Harry would have to introduce the twins to Viktor soon, because he knew they’d both delight in lording their acquaintance with Viktor Krum over Ronald and Jules and Seamus’ heads in Gryffindor. Hermione would only use that weapon if she had to and Neville was too nice to use it at all, and it’d be a shame for it to go to waste.

 

For the first time since he’d come to Hogwarts, Harry participated in the Halloween feast. He still didn’t _like_ the celebratory air on the anniversary of the day his mum died and his life turned to shit, but the Tournament provided a welcome distraction.

Even with that, he didn’t join in the conversation. Theo and Blaise got it and cut in to prevent Viktor, Timur, Malfoy, or Niklas from making him talk.

The feast seemed to last forever.

Dumbledore stood, and the hall fell silent. It was the first time Harry had ever been grateful to the old man for starting one of his inane speeches.

“The goblet is almost ready to make its decision,” Dumbledore said. “I estimate that it requires one more minute. Now, when the champions’ names are called, I would ask them please to come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber—” he gestured to a door behind the staff table— “where they will receive their first instructions.”

He gave a great, sweeping wave of his wand. The candles in the carved pumpkins floating around the Great Hall went out, plunging them into semidarkness. The Goblet of Fire was now the brightest thing in the Hall, the blue-white flames leaping higher than they ever had before. Everyone waited…

The flames suddenly turned red. Sparks began to fly. The next second, a tongue of flame shot into the air, spat out a bit of charred parchment, and died as soon as it had lived.

Dumbledore caught the parchment and read it in the light of the flames.

“The champion for Durmstrang,” he said, “will be Viktor Krum!”

A storm of applause overtook the Hall. Malfoy and Niklas, sitting next to Krum, slapped him on the back, he accepted their shouted congratulations with a private, confident grin and then smoothed his face out into stony gruffness. He slouched up to the front of the hall like he couldn’t care less for the applause and hadn’t expected anything other than to be chosen, and disappeared through the door.

“Bravo, Viktor!” boomed Karkaroff. Niklas and Timur rolled their eyes. “Knew you had it in you!”

“What?” Daphne asked the Durmstrang boys.

They exchanged glances before Niklas spoke. His English was the best and he often explained things for the rest of his friends. “No one likes Karkaroff very much,” he said softly, just audible over the slowly-dying applause. “He is… fond of making nice with important people—you have an idiom for this, no?”

“Several,” Theo said. “Brown-nosing, ass-kissing, sucking up…”

“Those.” Niklas nodded. “He is attentive to Viktor only from our group. Viktor hates it as vell but there is little he can do.”

They cut themselves off as Dumbledore waved for silence.

Once more, the flames turned red and spat out a bit of parchment.

“The champion for Beauxbatons… is Fleur Delacour!”

A tall, graceful girl stood up from the Beauxbatons table, shook back her sheet of silvery hair, and swept up towards the staff table. She vaguely resembled a veela.

“Look at them,” Pansy sniggered, pointing at the rest of the Beauxbatons party. Unlike the Durmstrang group, who’d split up and integrated nicely with the Slytherins, the Beauxbatons girls and boys sat in one cluster, forcing the Ravenclaws to divide around them. Half of them looked brokenhearted and the other half looked murderous. Two girls were actually sobbing with their heads on their arms. Harry felt a wave of disgust.

The applause died down again, and this time the silence was stiff and brittle. The Hogwarts champion would be next.

For a third time, the flames turned red and gave out a name.

“The Hogwarts champion,” Dumbledore read, “will be Cedric Diggory!”

“Hell,” Theo complained, but no one heard him except his immediate friends; the Hufflepuff table was too loud for anyone to hear clearly. Every single badger was on his or her feet, screaming and stamping, as Cedric made his way past them with a broad grin. The applause for Cedric went on so long that it was some time before Dumbledore got them all to shut up.

“Excellent!” he called out happily. “Well, we now have our three champions. I am sure I can count upon all of you, including the remaining students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to give your champions every ounce of support you can muster. By cheering your champion on, you will contribute in a very real—”

He stopped talking abruptly, and it was obvious what had distracted him.

The fire in the goblet had turned red again. Sparks flew out of it. And it spat out a fourth bit of parchment.

Dumbledore caught the parchment and stared at it for several long seconds. The silence was absolute. Harry had a very bad feeling about this.

Dumbledore cleared his throat and read out—

_“Julian Potter.”_

“Of course,” Harry whispered. “Of course it’s bloody Jules. Why am I not even surprised?”

He and all his friends—indeed, pretty much every single person in the Great Hall—turned around or craned their necks to stare at Jules. His brother was sitting between Ronald and Finnegan with a pretty convincing imitation of shell-shock on his face—so convincing, in fact, that Harry was inclined to believe he hadn’t done it.

Jules said something, and didn’t move.

“Jules Potter!” Dumbledore called again. “Jules! Up here, if you please!”

Finnegan gave Jules a shove, and he stood up, and Harry could _see_ the moment shock gave way to a sort of surprised pleasure; Jules liked the fame, he’d grown up with people pointing at him in the streets and whispering about him and treating him as their _savior_ , so he didn’t seem to care that the long walk up to the staff table was dead silent.

Without a word, he went through the door after the other champions.

“He’s so going to die,” Daphne said.

Niklas stared at Harry. “How could this happen?”

“I’ve no clue,” Harry said. “No way could he fool the Age Line, let alone the Goblet, he’s not that good a wizard—even I couldn’t and I’m way ahead of him—”

The Goblet turned red _again_.

This time, instead of silence, angry shouts rang out in the hall. Some from Hufflepuff and some from Beauxbatons.

“Hogwarts is cheating,” Timur muttered.

“We are _not_ ,” Theo said hotly, but Harry was staring with ill-disguised horror at the fifth bit of parchment from the Goblet. He knew exactly what it said.

“Bloody fucking hell, why is it always fucking Halloween?” he whisper-screamed just as Dumbledore said, “…Hadrian Potter.”

His mask slipped into place almost at the same instant that everyone turned to stare at him. Harry lifted his chin, face blank and every movement sure, as he rose from his place at the Slytherin table. He ignored the accusatory stares of Niklas and Timur, glares from Hufflepuff and Gryffindor, calculating subtle glances from the Slytherins, and followed in the footsteps of the four people before him. Through the door with the other champions.

Harry walked through the door and right into an extremely tense atmosphere. The room was classroom-sized, lined with portraits and handsome furniture and a large fireplace on one wall, but no one was paying attention to the décor.

“You too!” Viktor said, looking astonished. And angry. Jules shot Harry a desperate glance: the other three were glaring at him furiously.

There was a sound of scurrying feet, and Ludo Bagman burst into the room. He was followed closely by Dumbledore, Crouch, Snape, Karkaroff, Maxime, and McGonagall.

“Madame Maxime!” Delacour said at once, striding over to her Headmistress. “Zey are saying zat zese little boys are to compete also!”

Harry’s lips tightened. He didn’t like being called _boy,_ what with the bad associations, but she had a point. He was fourteen. He and Jules would probably both die in this idiotic Tournament.

Madame Maxine drew herself up to her full, considerable height. “What is ze meaning of zis, Dumbly-door?” she demanded.

“I’d rather like to know that myself, Dumbledore,” Karkaroff said. His smile was steely. “ _Three_ Hogwarts champions? I don’t remember anyone telling me the host school is allowed multiple champions—or have I not read the rules closely enough?”

He gave a short and nasty laugh.

“ _C’est impossible,”_ Maxime said, resting one massive hand on Delacour’s shoulder. “’Ogwarts cannot have three champions. It is most unjust.”

“We were under the impression that your Age Line would keep out younger contestants, Dumbledore,” said Karkaroff. “Otherwise, we would, of course, have brought along a wider selection of candidates from our own schools.”

“If I may?” Harry said, stepping forward with his most charmingly innocent bearing in place.

Everyone in the room seemed flabbergasted by his audacity. He waited patiently for permission.

“Yes, go on, boy,” Crouch said, waving a hand impatiently.

Inwardly, Harry bristled. _Vernon_ used to call him ‘boy.’ But he choked back the memories and the sudden urge to curse Crouch into little pieces. “This doesn’t seem to be a malfunction of only the Age Line. Someone managed to trick the Goblet of Fire itself, which is programmed to emit only one name from each competing school, if I’ve done my research correctly.”

Again, he paused, until Dumbledore blinked out of his surprise and said, “Yes, indeed, you are correct, dear boy.”

“Thank you, Headmaster,” Harry said with a hesitant, small smile. “It seems—well, neither Jules nor I would have the magical skill to fool a centuries-old magical artifact that’s probably smarter than both of us put together. I did not put my name into the Goblet, and I did not ask a friend to do so for me.”

“Jules?” Dumbledore said calmly. “Did you put your name in the Goblet of Fire, or perhaps ask an older student to do so for you?”

“No,” Jules said instantly. “No, I wouldn’t… I didn’t.”

_‘Couldn’t’ would be more accurate there, little brother._

“Zey are lying,” Maxime said instantly.

“Perhaps not,” Snape said silkily. “The boy makes a good point… The Goblet of Fire is older than the Wizengamot, if you’ll recall… I find it highly unlikely that a pair of fourteen-year-olds could’ve managed to do so.” He aimed a sneer in Jules’ direction that said, _particularly_ that _fourteen-year-old_. Jules bristled but Harry silenced him with a glare.

“Mr. Crouch, Mr. Bagman,” Karkaroff said, his voice oily once more. “You are our—er—objective judges. Surely you will agree that this is most irregular? Regardless of how their names got into the Goblet, they cannot compete.”

Harry, for all his reluctance to be a Champion, was pretty sure he wouldn’t have a choice in the matter, and neither would Jules. There were larger currents here than he could see the shape of yet but this wasn’t random. This was deliberate.

The Boy Who Lived, and his brother, the Potter Heir.

Bagman wiped his boyish face with a handkerchief and looked at Crouch. “We must follow the rules, and the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament. It is a binding magical contract. They could not back out if they tried.”

“Well, Barty knows the rule book back to front,” Bagman said, beaming.

“I will not stand for this,” Karkaroff said. “You will reopen the Goblet, Dumbledore, and we will resubmit names until it has chosen two more champions from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons!”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Bagman said. “The Goblet won’t reignite until the start of the next Tournament—”

“—in which Durmstrang will most certainly not be participating!” Karkaroff exploded. “After all our meetings and negotiations and compromises, I little expected something of this nature to occur! I have half a mind to leave now!”

“Empty threat, Karkaroff,” growled a familiar voice near the door. Harry didn’t let his mask crack in the slightest as Moody stumped forward. “You can’t leave your champion now. He’s got to compete. They all do. Binding magical contract, like Crouch said. Convenient, eh?”

 _Yes_ , Harry thought. The currents were… still too large for him to really see but he was starting to get the gist. _Very convenient. Someone wants us dead._

“Convenient?” said Karkaroff. “I’m afraid I don’t understand you, Moody.”

He was still clinging to his arch disdain, and failing. His hands gave him away. They were balled into fists.

“Don’t you?” said Moody quietly. “It’s very simple, Karkaroff. Someone put the Potters’ names in that goblet knowing they’d have to compete if they came out.”

“Evidently, someone ‘oo wished to give ‘Ogwarts three bites at ze apple!” Maxime said.

“I quite agree, Madame Maxime,” Karkaroff said with a bow. “I shall be lodging complaints with the Ministry of Magic _and_ the International Confederation of Wizards—”

“Zis is a chance many would die for!” Delacour hissed. “And zey are not even protesting—”

Moody said what Harry was thinking. “Maybe someone’s hoping they _are_ going to die for it.”

A very tense silence followed.

Moody’s eyes were fixed on Karkaroff. Clearly he thought the ex-Death Eater was involved somehow. Karkaroff, indeed, was at the top of Harry’s list of suspects. He’d lost his master to Jules Potter and might be out for a bit of revenge. Snape was the other possibility, but the rumors of his Death Eater days were only rumors and he liked Harry, if not Jules, by this point.

Bagman shifted nverously. “Moody, old man… what a thing to say!”

“We all know Professor Moody considers the morning wasted if he hasn’t discovered six plots to murder him before lunchtime,” said Karkaroff loudly. “Apparently he is now teaching his students to fear assassination too. An odd quality in a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Dumbledore, but no doubt you had your reasons.”

“Imagining things, am I?” Moody growled. “Seeing things, eh? It was a skilled witch or wizard who put those boys’ names in that Goblet—more skilled than a fourteen-year-old—”

“Yes, Harry Potter has already made that point quite nicely,” McGonagall said tersely.

Moody’s magical eye flipped over to rest on Harry for a few seconds. He was exceedingly glad he’d told Eriss to go hunt and meet him in the dorms later. “Has he now,” Moody muttered.

Harry blinked guilelessly.

“Alastor, have you any ideas how this could’ve happened?” McGonagall said with brisk practicality.

“Several,” Moody growled. “Most likely someone used an exceptionally powerful Confundus Charm to bamboozle that goblet into forgetting that only three schools compete in the Tournament. I’m guessing they submitted the Potters’ names under a fourth and fifth school, so they’d be the only entrants in their categories…”

“You seem to have given this a great deal of thought, Moody,” Karkaroff said coldly, “and a very ingenious theory it is—though of course, I heard you recently got it into your head that a birthday gift was a cunningly disguised basilisk egg, and smashed it to pieces before realizing it was a carriage clock. So you’ll understand if we don’t take you entirely seriously…”

Karkaroff was quite good at this, Harry noted—deftly bringing up _multiple_ previous Moody paranoid disasters to discredit the man. He couldn’t tell whether Karkaroff was doing it for the sake of discrediting him, though, or if there was another motive—perhaps covering his own tracks?

“There are those who’ll turn innocent situations to their advantage,” Moody said menacingly. “It’s my job to think the way Dark wizards do, Karkaroff—as you ought to remember.”

“Alastor!” said Dumbledore warningly.

Moody fell silent, but he examined Karkaroff’s burning face with satisfaction. Harry didn’t want to get on Moody’s bad side. The man _really_ knew how to hold a grudge.

“How this situation arose, we do not know for sure,” Dumbledore said. “It seems to me, however, that we have no choice but to accept it. Jules and Harry are bound to compete. Therefore, this they shall do… unless anyone has an alternative?”

No one spoke up. Maxime looked furious and Karkaroff positively livid; Snape’s anger was far more controlled and Harry wasn’t sure if it was at the thought of one of his Slytherins forced into this competition or the idea of Jules getting yet another chance to add to his fame or both or neither. Bagman alone seemed excited.

“Well, shall we crack on, then?” he said, smiling and rubbing his hands together. “Got to give our champions their instructions, haven’t we? Barty, want to do the honors?”

Crouch came out of a deep reverie with a slight jolt. “Yes, instructions… Yes… the first task…”

He moved forward, into the firelight, and Harry thought he looked ill. The bags under his eyes were purple and heavy and his skin looked paper-thin.

“The first task is designed to test your daring,” he said, “so we shall not be informing you beforehand what it will be. Courage and quick thinking in the face of the unknown are important qualities in wizards… very important…”

Harry was still watching Moody. The ex-Auror’s normal eye and body language were still trained on Karkaroff, but the magical eye was staring in Crouch’s direction. If anything, the dislike on his face had intensified. Another oddity—he caught Dark wizards and Crouch sentenced them to Azkaban.

Unless that was exactly the problem, Harry realized. Sirius wasn’t the only case of Crouch sending someone to prison with a show trial or no trial at all. Moody wasn’t a zealot, per se. He was a pragmatist who used what magic he had to in order to do his job, and based on the old Prophet articles about trials and arrests, he believed in the rule of law. Sending an innocent to prison would rankle. Seemed he blamed Crouch for Sirius’ case more than he did Dumbledore.

“The first task will take place on November the twenty-fourth, in front of the other students and the panel of judges,” Crouch went on. “The champions are not permitted to ask or accept help of any kind from their teachers to complete the tasks. They will face the first challenge armed only with their wands. They will receive information about the second task when the first task is over. Owing to the demanding and time-consuming nature of the tournament, the champions are exempted from end-of-year exams.” He looked at Dumbledore. “Is that all, Albus?”

“I think so,” said Dumbledore, who was looking at Crouch with mild concern. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to stay at Hogwarts tonight?”

“No, Dumbledore, I must get back to the Ministry,” Crouch said. “It is a very busy, very difficult time… I’ve left young Weatherby in charge…” Harry almost choked. He’d have to tell the twins about that one. “He’s very enthusiastic… A little overenthusiastic, if truth be told…”

“You’ll come and have a drink before you go, at least?” Dumbledore said.

“Come on, Barty, I’m staying!” Bagman said brightly. Harry thought this was perhaps not a good way to convince Crouch; the dislike he harbored for Bagman was obvious.

“I think not, Ludo,” Crouch said.

“Professor Karkaroff—Madame Maxime—a nightcap?” Dumbledore said.

But the other two were already leading their charges away.

“I suggest you three get yourselves off to bed,” Dumbledore said, smiling. “I’m sure your Houses are waiting to celebrate with you… It would be a shame to deprive them of this excellent opportunity to make a lot of mess and noise.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said politely.

The three of them left together. The Great Hall was already empty.

“So,” Diggory said, examining them both. “How’d you do it?”

“We _didn’t_ ,” Jules snapped.

Harry rubbed his left temple. “Jules, no one’s going to believe us. Diggory, I swear to you I had nothing to do with this and I find it _highly_ unlikely a pair of fourteen-year-olds could’ve done this.”

“Your House could’ve pitched in,” Diggory said. “You Slytherins are all tight.”

“They were too busy cheering Warrington and Bletchley,” Harry said flatly, but it was clear Diggory didn’t believe them, so he said an irritable goodnight and stalked off for the dungeons.

“Hadrian.”

Only one person used his full name with a heavy Bulgarian accent. Harry briefly felt like throwing something fragile across the room but there was nothing to hand so he just changed direction and met Viktor in a shadowy patch by the doors out of the school. “What?” he said. “And didn’t Karkaroff just drag you away?”

“I told him I could get information from you,” Viktor said. “That we were—friendly—after our meals. Truth: did you put your name in?”

 _“No,”_ Harry said. “Look, I’m not an idiot, Viktor—I’m fourteen! I’m probably likely to _die_ in this bloody thing as I am to do anything else—and there’s no way a fourteen-year-old could trick that Goblet, as I already mentioned.”

“Ah,” Viktor said. “That is vat I thought. But you understand I had to see.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, shoulders slumping a little. Displays of vulnerability fostered trust. “Yeah, I get it… I’m pretty sure someone’s trying to kill Jules and me because, you know, the whole Boy Who Lived thing.”

“Your family has many enemies,” Viktor said. “That I can understand also. Ve shall continue vith our veekend plans, yes? Timur and Niklas enjoyed today. Ve have… few friends at Durmstrang.”

“Jealousy?” Harry said.

Viktor nodded.

“People are stupid,” he muttered. “Yeah, I’d love to stick with that. I learned loads today. Even if you’d rather stick to potions and arithmancy and things other than dueling… for the sake of, you know, not to give away secrets.”

“I can keep my best spells secret,” Viktor declared with a hint of a smile. “No—ah, you say ‘tough feelings,’ or…”

“Hard feelings,” Harry said. “Definitely.”

Viktor held out a hand, and Harry shook it firmly.

“I shall tell Karkaroff you seemed terrified and that I doubt you did this,” Viktor said.

“And I’ll tell my House not to hex you in the halls to give me an advantage,” Harry said with a smirk. “See you tomorrow.”

 _At least I won’t have him breathing down my neck_ , Harry thought. For all his surly reserve, Viktor didn’t seem particularly deceitful, or like he was a good liar. He’d have to keep looking over his shoulder, especially for Delacour, but at least he could keep up an alliance with Viktor, Timur, and Niklas. They were smart and Harry actually liked them and on top of that there were a number of advantages to building rapport there.

He hesitated outside his common room. This was… likely to be harder than both Viktor and the scene in the receiving room off the Great Hall put together.

“Potentia,” he said, and the wall slid aside.

Harry _almost_ winced as he walked inside. It looked like the entirety of Slytherin House was packed into the common room. The six prefects stood at the front of the room by the hearth, talking quietly; they broke off when they saw Harry.

“Potter,” Hestia said with a nod.

“Carrow,” he said politely.

There was a pause.

“Let’s get this over with,” Alton Bole said. “Potter, did you put your name in the Goblet?”

“No,” Harry said flatly. He kept his attention focused on the prefects but he was acutely aware of the rest of the House watching. Theo and Blaise and Pansy and Daphne were stuck in the crowd. “I’m fourteen. I’m fully aware that I have nowhere near the skill or experience for this Tournament, let alone fooling the stupid Goblet. And even if _I_ could, does anyone honestly think my brother’s capable?”

“Ha,” Pucey said. “The Other Potter’s got power in spades but no skill.”

“Point,” Vickie Chapman said. “So then how’d this happen?”

Harry’s lips twisted. “My family has enemies,” he said. “Wouldn’t be that surprising if someone decided to enter Jules and me in the hopes that we’ll die facing, I don’t know, a manticore or some shit.”

“No one would put you up against a manticore,” Everett Kinney scoffed.

“It’s _Dumbledore_ helping plan this thing,” someone else said.

Warrington waved her hand impatiently. “It doesn’t matter what he’ll face. I’ll not tolerate anyone giving Potter a hard time for this in the halls. He’s not stupid or self-sacrificing enough to enter on his own which means someone’s trying to kill one of our own. If the other Houses pitch a fit—especially Hufflepuff—we’re going to shut that down. I don’t care what you say in here but out that door we _will_ present a united front, got it?”

There was a general murmur of assent. Harry resisted the urge to slump with relief.

The prefects and a number of the upper years, including most of the older Quidditch set, minus Flint who’d finally passed his NEWTs and graduated, huddled up by the hearth. Harry ignored them and rejoined his friends as the rest of the house dispersed with lots of curious, calculating glances his way.

“What happened?” Theo said instantly.

Malfoy lurked uncertainly between Harry’s group and the trio of Crabbe, Goyle, and Bulstrode.

“Really?” Pansy said, when she saw where he was looking. “Adopting him?”

“If he can keep being decent, yes,” Harry said, and caught Malfoy’s eye, calling him over with a quick jerk of his head.

Malfoy sat down a little hesitantly between Pansy and Theo.

Harry jumped in and related the conversation from the room of champions and judges.

“Shit,” Theo muttered. “Someone really wants you both dead.”

“Funnily enough, I’d noticed.”

“Nothing we can do about it, except keep up with dueling club,” Daphne said. “And see if one of us can ferret out what that first task is beforehand. Crouch only said you can’t accept help from _teachers_ , he didn’t say anything about other students.”

Harry started to grin. “Good point, Daph.”

She smiled back. He found his eyes lingering on her smile again, and on the way her white-blond hair splayed out over her shoulder and the couch. It was a nicer color, he thought, than Delacour’s silver, which looked almost artificial under some lights…

“How’d Viktor react?” Theo said.

“He was pissed at first, I think, but he hung back and we talked in the entrance hall after Dumbledore let Diggory and Jules and me go,” Harry said. “We sorted it out. It’s fine.”

“Oh,” Blaise said, “here,” holding out his arm. Eriss’ head poked out of his robes, tongue flickering anxiously.

 _“Hey_ ,” Harry said, reaching out himself so Eriss could wind her way off of Blaise’s arm and up his own, draping herself openly around his shoulders. _“Good hunting?”_

 _“Yes.”_ She butted her nose into his neck. _“Talk later. Your den-mates don’t like not understanding me.”_

Harry half-smiled. She had a point.

“Thanks,” he said to Blaise.

“She found me in our dorm when I ran back for a book,” Blaise said. “Just… started climbing my leg.”

“It definitely freaked him out,” Theo said, snickering. “You should’ve seen his face…”

Blaise kicked his ankle.

“What, er, kind of snake is she?” Malfoy said.

“Loharian viper,” Harry said.

Malfoy’s eyebrows rose. “Venomous.”

“Don’t provoke her,” Harry muttered, scratching under Eriss’ chin.

“Heads up,” Daphne said quietly, nodding over Harry’s shoulder.

He looked around. The clot of upper years was breaking up; Warrington, Miles, Kinney, and Hestia were coming his way with determined expressions on their faces.

“Potter,” Warrington said. She and the other three pulled up chairs and joined the loose group of fourth years; they passed perfunctory nods around the circle. “…since when do you have a snake familiar?”

“Since summer after second year,” Harry said casually.

Kinney stared at Eriss with blatant shock.

“…okay,” Miles said. “That thing doesn’t come to practice, right?”

Eriss hissed at him. Miles paled a bit.

“No,” Harry said, grinning. “She hates flying.”

Warrington dismissed it. “We have a proposition. We want you to survive and also to do well, so we’ve agreed to foist you off on the sixth years two days a week to prepare you for the Tournament.”

“Like dueling practice?” Harry said.

“Ish,” Hestia said. “Dueling, but also new spells, spell theory, tactics, and review of previous Tournament tasks.”

“Wednesdays between the last class and dinner, and Sunday from noon to dinner,” Miles said. “Cassie and I are busy with NEWTs and the fifth years have their OWLs so that leaves the sixth years. Hestia and Everett are getting a crew together. You’ll sort out where in the school to meet them and they’ll make sure you don’t die in this thing.”

“The rest of you lot, make sure he doesn’t fall behind in his homework,” Kinney said, waving around at the rest of Harry’s friends. “I have this handwriting translating spell for essays that my mum taught me, I’ll get you the runes later. If someone else needs to write his essays you’ll do it, we aren’t going to let his grades slip because of this. Slytherin needs to be represented well.”

“Duh,” Theo said.

Kinney snorted.

“Clear?” Warrington said.

“Got it,” Harry said.

She nodded sharply. “Figure out a meeting place. Miles, can we talk about that Potions project?”

“Absolutely.” The NEWT students left.

“So now we have to figure out where to go,” Hestia said, leaning forward.

“Will you need to be shielded from the Hogwarts wards?” Blaise said. “They’re weaker out on the grounds.”

Hestia made a face. “I’m not spending six hours a day two days a week outside in this weather, thanks.”

“And it’s a secret,” Daphne added, “so you’ll need somewhere big enough to work in but out-of-the-way enough that no one will barge in on you.”

“Unused classroom?” Malfoy said.

Kinney shook his head. “All the classrooms are too small for real dueling.”

“I have somewhere,” Harry said slowly, thinking of his two options: the Knights Room and the Chamber of Secrets. Both were secrets… but one was much less dramatic to reveal. “I’ll show you at noon tomorrow, meet me in the entrance hall.”

“Good,” Hestia said. “Rest up, Potter, you’re going to need it.”

 

Sunday morning sucked.

The Great Hall fell almost silent when Harry walked in. He dealt with the whispers and stares during breakfast but as soon as he’d cleared his plate he glanced sideways at Theo and muttered an excuse.

“I’ll come,” Theo said.

They said goodbye to Viktor, Timur, Niklas, and their House mates, and left the Hall. Harry moved as quickly as he could without looking like he was running away. The stares and whispers were so bloody irritating.

“Why are people so dense?” he snarled as soon as he and Theo were out on the grounds. “Honestly—like two fourth years tricked the Age Line and the Goblet of Fire to compete in a Tournament against students three and four years older _—_ it’s _idiotic.”_

“People are idiotic,” Theo said darkly.

 Harry glared at a birch sapling near them. _“Bombarda.”_

It exploded into slivers of wood and leaf and sap. Theo cast a quick _“Protego”_ and kept the debris off them.

“Feel better?” Theo said drily.

“A little, yeah,” Harry muttered.

“Duel?”

Harry considered. “That sounds… therapeutic. Nothing too complicated. I’m apparently getting drilled by the sixth years this afternoon.”

“I don’t envy you having the Carrows with free rein,” Theo said emphatically. “Ready?”

Harry cast a timing charm, made sure they were in a relatively secluded area, and nodded. “Ready.”

Theo jumped right in with a _torque_ o, the Body-Bind’s nastier cousin, which twisted your limbs into savagely painful positions. Harry blocked it neatly and returned a cutting curse sandwiched between two Stunners. Theo dodged.

Neither of them had landed anything after five minutes, but Harry felt much better and managed a grin for Theo, who laughed at him and dismantled the sound wards he’d thrown up.

They wandered back out of the copse of trees and along the shore of the Black Lake for a few minutes, neither of them speaking, nor needing to.

Harry felt more than saw Theo’s change in disposition and looked up immediately. He followed the direction of his friend’s attention and saw three familiar silhouettes just a little farther along.

“Dammit,” Theo said.

“Wonder why they’re with him…”

“Shall we go see? He was being nicer after this summer.”

“Sure.”

They drew closer.

Hermione had her nose in a book, as usual, walking a step or so behind Neville and Jules. Neville was the first to notice Harry and Theo. He grinned and waved. Jules looked up and grimaced.

“No need to look so irritated, little brother,” Harry said, smirking. “I haven’t even said anything.”

“You’re annoying, though,” Jules muttered.

“Thanks ever so much.” Harry examined him. “Gryffindors not being too charming?”

Jules turned away angrily.

“Ron doesn’t believe you two didn’t put your names in,” Neville explained. “He’s in a snit about Jules working with, er, you instead of him.”

“Let me guess, he phrased it less diplomatically?” Theo drawled.

“Working with the _slimy Slytherin git you’ve been cursed with having as a brother_ was how he put it,” Hermione said without looking up from her book. “Harry, are you doing all right?”

“Fine, thanks,” he said. Jules looked so irritated and upset that Harry couldn’t even find it in himself to rub it in that Slytherin House was dealing with it just fine. “How about Diggory?”

“The Hufflepuffs hate both of us right now,” Jules said gloomily. “For stealing their glory or some rot.”

“They do deserve some time in the spotlight,” Harry said. “They work hard all the time. Although I’d really prefer it was… well, nearly any of them other than Diggory.”

“What’s wrong with Diggory?” Jules said. “He’s decent, we met him this summer, remember?”

“Unfortunately.”

Theo plucked Hermione’s book out of her hands and examined it while dodging her indignant attempts to retrieve it. _“A History of Magical Contracts in Britain_ ,” he read. “That sounds horribly boring, even for you, ‘Mione.”

“Give it _back_ , you prat,” she said, scowling. Harry’s lips twitched towards a smile. It was almost definitely something not dry and boring—one of Daphne’s illicit runes books, probably. He briefly considered saying something about her reading it around Jules… but no, Hermione wouldn’t take that well and Jules was second only to Ronald in terms of his shocking disinterest in books, which Hermione knew full well.

“‘The history of the magical contract is a long one which requires a lengthy discussion of legal precedence and which is intricately intertwined with the Wizengamot and the development of its role in the lives and culture of wizarding Britain.’ This is denser than Finnegan.”

Harry looked away so his smirk wouldn’t be obvious. Theo’s improvising skills were really excellent.

“Hey,” Jules said.

“Oh come off it, Potter,” Theo said. Hermione took advantage of his distraction to snatch the book back. “We all saw Finnegan buddying up to Weasley this morning at breakfast. If he was supporting you he’d be out here.”

“He believes me,” Jules muttered. “He’s just… trying to bring Ron around.”

“Are you scared?” Neville said gently. It was typical for Neville to reach out to Jules when Ronald had forsaken him. Harry wanted to complain… but family was family, and Jules _did_ look pretty upset. Morose, even. All his arrogance drained away.

“Of course not,” Jules said instantly.

“I’m scared,” Harry said flatly. “Terrified, actually. They designed this thing for older students—Krum takes a _class_ on the Dark Arts, Delacour’s undoubtedly hiding some steel under those pretty robes, and even Diggory has three years of schooling on us.”

“…okay, maybe a _little_ nervous,” Jules admitted.

Theo laughed, a harsh and unkind sound. “Oh, look, an exhibition of common sense.”

“Bugger off, Nott.”

“I’ll pass, wanker.”

“Theo,” Harry sighed. His best friend rolled his eyes but subsided, muttering under his breath.

The five of them walked slowly and silently along the edge of the Black Lake for a few minutes, Hermione trailing behind with her book.

“I just don’t get _why_ ,” Jules said in frustration, kicking at a rock. “He’s—my best mate and he just—thinks I’d do something like this without telling him—”

“No, not _really_ …” Hermione said.

Jules turned to look at her. They all ended up stopping. “What d’you mean, not _really_?” he said.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Hermione said a bit snappishly, closing her book with a snap. “He’s jealous.”

“Jealous?” Jules said incredulously. “Jealous of what? He wants to make a prat of himself in front of the whole school, does he?”

“Could you _be_ any thicker?” Theo said.

Neville elbowed him, hard. “Jules, you’re a celebrity.”

“Think,” Hermione said. “Ron’s got five older brothers to contend with and you’re over here, famous, loved by everyone, the spoiled only child born with a cornucopia hanging over your crib, and he’s your _best friend_ but he’s always shunted aside when people see you—”

“I am not _spoiled_ ,” Jules snapped.

Harry rolled his eyes. “What was the last time you and our dear father were out shopping and you wanted something and it didn’t turn up within a few days?”

Jules opened his mouth. Closed it again.

“Exactly,” Harry said, shoving aside for the millionth time all his resentment and hate.

“Not my fault you had a shit childhood,” Jules muttered.

Theo tensed.

“I could make an argument that it is, Boy Who Lived,” Harry said in a voice like acid. “But I won’t, because _I_ have the sense to see that whatever the hell you did wasn’t really your doing, as you were one year old and can’t even remember defeating the Dark Lord.”

Jules and Harry stared at each other for several fraught seconds while the autumn wind off the lake tugged briskly at their clothes and hair and skin.

“Dad’s been a right prat to you, hasn’t he,” Jules said.

The atmosphere relaxed somewhat. “Glad you’ve finally caught on,” Neville said with a grin. “Look, Ron’s being an idiot, you can sit with me in the Great Hall, okay?”

“I… thanks, Neville,” Jules said.

“Let’s just focus on surviving, yeah?” Harry said.

“I like that plan,” Jules said with a laugh. “Er, d’you want to, I don’t know, study together today or something? In… the library… with all this Tournament crap I should probably work on homework…”

“Plus Ron wouldn’t go near the library unless it was to save a friend in mortal peril?” Neville said.

Theo snorted. “He might consider hanging out with Slytherins ‘mortal peril.’”

“It might be,” Jules said. “Depending on the Slytherin.”

“How about we not get into that argument right now,” Hermione said. “I like this plan. Harry?”

Harry realized he needed to catch her, Neville, and Justin up on the new arrangement he’d made with the Slytherin upper years. Or have Theo or someone do it for him. And he also _really_ needed to sort out those notebooks soon. “I have an internal House matter to attend to,” he said. Invoking Slytherin business usually worked great; the House’s reputation for secrecy and close-knit ranks was infamous. “So, unfortunately, today won’t work. Tomorrow after class, maybe?”

“Sure,” Jules said, looking relieved. “I, er, can I ask you some questions about Potions?”

Harry nodded. “We could go over it right now, if you like. I have some time before I have to go back to the dorms. Do you have your bag with you?”

Jules blushed slightly. “No. It’s a Sunday…”

“Of course not,” Theo said witheringly.

“Tomorrow, then,” Harry said.

“Tomorrow,” Jules echoed.

 

After he and Neville trudged off to the castle, Harry told Hermione about his arrangements to train for the Tournament.

“Isn’t that breaking the rules?” she said, looking nervous. “You’re not supposed to accept help…”

“They only said from _teachers_ ,” Harry said. “Nothing about fellow students.”

Theo smirked. “He’s following the letter of the law, if not the spirit. Be happy with that, ‘Mione.”

She threw grass at Theo’s head. “ _Fine_. If you get in trouble, don’t come whining to me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Harry said with a smirk.

“Do you… you know, _want_ to work with them?” she said. “I’ve not heard nice things about the Carrows…”

“They can be nasty if you piss them off,” Harry said. “Actually, most Slytherins. But no, they’re—fine once you get used to them.” _And wrench some respect out of their cold hearts._ “I want to. I mean, if I tried to say no, it would be a fight, but I’ll learn loads, so.”

Hermione shrugged.

“Please tell me you’re not considering trying to integrate Jules like you are Malfoy,” Theo said. “Malfoy I can handle. That arrogant Gryffindor prat, not so much.”

“Malfoy’s not so bad,” Hermione said. “Anymore. At least he understands, somewhat, when I talk about homework.”

“He’s family,” Harry said, almost dragging every word out of his throat. Sincerity was _hard_. “I can’t… it’s not easy to just, you know, turn my back on… it’s not his fault James raised him to be a Quidditch-mad prejudiced prat. It’s not his fault Gryffindor hasn’t handled… things… as well as Slytherin.”

“I noticed you not rubbing that in his face,” Theo said.

Hermione sighed and opened her book again. “People are so much harder than books.”

“What are you reading?” Harry said.

 _“An Introduction to Blood-Runes_ ,” she said.

Harry raised his eyebrows. He’d read the same one from the Black library over the summer and found it fascinating. Everything in it was illegal under the comprehensive ban on blood magic of 1803, which he had first learned about during the trials and then researched at length, despite the book’s focus on protective wards and healing spells. “What do you think?”

“I’m going to try the wards around my bed,” she said absently. “You can key people into them if you use a stone with the right properties to anchor the wards and then dashing a bit of everyone’s blood onto the wards. Be a good way to keep Lavender out of my things.”

Theo and Harry exchanged a slightly concerned glance. “You do know you’d probably get expelled and your wand snapped for actually using any of those wards, right?” Theo said.

Hermione blinked at him. “Really? Oh, the blood magic ban—that covers _these?_ ”

“Didn’t you look it up?” Harry said, amused.

“I haven’t read the entire law yet,” Hermione said. “I think I’m going to go owl the Ministry archives and ask for a copy. See you later.”

“Wait, _now?”_ Theo said, but she was already gone, resolutely striding across the grounds.

Harry shook his head. “If she can make it without horrendously offending anyone influential and irritating, she’s going to be a terror in the Ministry in ten years.”

“House-elf rights,” Theo predicted. “Also werewolves. Probably the goblins, if she can get them to cooperate with her instead of beheading her.”

“We’d have to send someone diplomatic along to help with those negotiations,” Harry said. “Hannah, or Justin, or Pansy.”

“Pansy, diplomatic?”

“When she wants to be.”

Theo laughed. “Good point.”

Harry sighed. “Let’s go, I need to talk to Sirius and I haven’t got much time left before the sixth years have control of me.

“Good luck with that,” Theo said, snickering, as they started up to the castle.

 

“Sirius Black.”

It only took about thirty seconds for Sirius to pick up the mirror this time. Harry caught a glimpse of blue sky behind his godfather’s head and raised one eyebrow. “Where are you?”

“Hyde Park.” Sirius sounded a little out of breath. “I was running around as Padfoot—no one ever suspects a dog of anything. Helps I’m not gaunt and rabid-looking in my animagus form anymore.”

“D’you just… carry the mirror along?” Harry said dubiously.

Sirius snorted. “Nah, Kreacher has standing orders to bring it to me if you call me on it, he popped in just a second ago. I hid behind some bushes and transformed back. They finally told the Wizengamot about the Tournament yesterday—I was going to talk to you tonight. How’d it go?”

“Er,” Harry said. “You haven’t… been in today?”

“No,” Sirius said, frowning at his tone. “The Wizengamot isn’t in session weekends, why?”

“They, er, chose the champions last night,” Harry hedged.

“And?”

“Viktor Krum from Durmstrang—that whole lot sat at the Slytherin table, I can safely say I have a cautious potential friendship formed with Viktor and two of his friends, Niklas Istvan and Timur Mishin.”

Sirius looked impressed. “The Istvans are a _really_ old family. Kind of like the Selwyns except, you know, Hungarian instead of British. How’s the son?”

“Good at potions,” Harry said. “Flirts with everything that moves. I wasn’t sure if him making eyes at Neville or Blaise was funnier. The three of them spent Saturday holed up in the Knights Room with most of my friends, plus Malfoy—we dueled. Viktor threw me into a wall.” He grinned briefly at the memory. “I learned a _lot_.”

“Good,” Sirius said, laughing. “So you’ve made friends with the Durmstrang students, who got chosen for Hogwarts and Beauxbatons?”

“Fleur Delacour from Beauxbatons,” Harry said. “I think she’s part veela. And from Hogwarts… the Goblet gave Cedric Diggory from Hufflepuff, but—”

“Diggory… _oh_ , I know the father,” Sirius said. “Amos, right? I’m not fond of the man, truth be told. He’s Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Right bastard.”

“This poor opinion of him wouldn’t have anything to do with his appalling behavior at the Cup, right?” Harry said.

“Of course not,” Sirius said innocently.

“Right.”

Sirius narrowed his eyes. “Wait, you said ‘but.’ But what?”

“Er,” Harry said. “Diggory isn’t the only Hogwarts champion.” He took a deep breath and kept talking before Sirius could jump in with fifteen rapid-fire questions. “It also picked Jules and me.”

“Nice one, Harry,” Sirius said, chuckling.

Harry made a face. Sometimes having a prankster for a godfather was as irritating as it was fun. “No, Sirius, I’m not joking.”

“They’re limiting it to seventeen and up and there’s no way you fooled Dumbledore’s Age Line,” Sirius said.

“Moody’s theory is that someone’s trying to kill us,” Harry said flatly. “My family’s not without its enemies, as you know.”

“Nice touch, name-dropping an authority figure,” Sirius said.

Harry groaned.

Sirius laughed. “Look, Harry, I’ve been convincing people of this kind of shite for longer than you’ve been alive, all right? It was a good effort—”

“I’m guessing you wouldn’t trust a Slytherin to back me up, would you?” Harry said.

“Nope,” Sirius said, grinning conspiratorially. “You can drop the act…”

“I am not kidding!” Harry yelled suddenly.  

There was a moment of silence. Sirius’ smile slowly fell away until he was examining Harry with a worried expression. “Okay, I’ve… never heard you lose your temper before, so either you’re making an extra effort to convince me of this unlikely story for some reason or you’re being honest.”

Harry rubbed his temples. “Look, how about you Apparate back to Grimmauld Place and firecall someone at the Ministry? Arthur Weasley, Amelia Bones, or, hell, Lucius Malfoy. That’d be faster than me tracking down Snape. And less likely to result in curses flying.”

Another few seconds ticked by. Harry could see the realization slowly dawning.

“Okay,” Sirius said. “I believe you, and… Shite, I’m sorry, I was being an arse.”

“I get why,” Harry said.

Sirius shrugged. “Well, just back out.”

“Can’t,” Harry said shortly. “It’s a binding magical contract. No getting out of it.”

 _“_ What? _”_ Sirius said loudly.

Someone yelled at him in the background.

“Hang on,” he growled, and the next thing Harry knew the mirror fumbled around a bit and then stopped showing a view of blue sky and skeletal branches with a few stubborn leaves still clinging to them. Muffled arguing came through the connection but no discernable words.

Harry flipped idly through a book comparing the political structures of the French and British magical governments while he waited.

Sirius came back in about two minutes. “Sorry, some Muggle lady yelled at me for ‘disturbing the peace’ so I went and disturbed _her_ peace.”

“You couldn’t just let it be?” Harry said.

“No,” Sirius said indignantly. “It’s a _park_ and it’s _outdoors_. I can yell as loud as I like, I’ve got as much right to be here as she does!”

_Gryffindors._

“Binding contract—are you _sure_ there’s no way?”

“Dumbledore and Crouch both agreed,” Harry said. “Jules and I have to do it.”

Sirius growled. “This is ridiculous. You’re _fourteen._ ”

“And most of the school thinks we did it on purpose for the glory,” Harry said nastily, thinking about the glares he’d gotten during breakfast and Jules driven away from his supposed best friend, “so Jules is on the outs with Ronald because Ronald is a jealous prat, and everyone in Gryffindor is treating Jules like the second coming of Merlin for fooling the Age Line and the Goblet no matter he’s not _near_ a good enough wizard.”

“Slytherin?”

“Too pragmatic,” Harry said. “They know there’s no way I did it on purpose and unlike adolescent Gryffindors, this kind of plot makes sense to most of Slytherin. Enter our names, fool the Goblet into thinking we’re each the lone entry for two extra schools, and boom, Harry and Jules are out risking their lives in front of the whole country.”

“It wouldn’t even be hard to meddle during the tasks and get you killed, make it look like an accident,” Sirius said, looking horrorstruck.

“Or kill us at any point this year and frame one of the competing students,” Harry said. “Even a _Hogwarts_ student if they felt like it. Wouldn’t be hard to say one of the Durmstrang lot had too much firewhiskey and decided to off the British upstarts. I wouldn’t put it past Delacour, not after how she reacted to the extra champions, but Durmstrang would be easier to blame. Plays into expectations.”

Sirius ran a hand over his face. “Fuck. I mean fudge—bloody hell. You’re not supposed to swear in front of teenagers. Right?”

“It’s fine,” Harry said, snickering. “I’ve heard worse and no one expects you to be the pinnacle of maturity.”

“Good, because I never will be,” Sirius said. “Anyway. This shit is just… complicated. I really was not cut out for Slytherin, I never would’ve thought of that. Merlin. So—um. Should I—I dunno, come up? I can let rooms in Hogsmeade, skulk around the grounds as Padfoot—I did it all last year, I can do it again—hell, you could bring me into the castle and say I’m your familiar if you want—”

“That’s… really kind of you but not a good idea,” Harry said, picturing a canine Sirius following him around and scaring the shit out of an already jumpy school. Which, while funny, wouldn’t actually be productive. “Dumbledore found out about you being an animagus last year, and they won’t release it because that would indict James too, but he’d still catch on. I’ll be careful.”

“You’d better,” Sirius muttered. “Don’t go anywhere alone or without your wand. And Eriss.”

“Can’t with Eriss,” Harry said. “Moody’s got his eye on me. The man hates Slytherins. I can’t risk running into him and having him spot her. She’s already sleeping a lot and she’ll slip into half-hibernation for most of the winter, usually around Chri—er, Yule. Speaking of which, what are the traditional Yule rites?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sirius said. “I can catch you up on all that over the summer if you’re really interested for next year, but this year everyone’s staying on over break for a Yule Ball they’re throwing for the Tournament. Figures Moody wouldn’t like Slytherins, the man’s a fanatic Dark hater and no offense but your House _does_ have something of a reputation.”

“It’s pragmatism,” Harry said. “We use the best tools available. If some random wizard went on a murder spree with the Entrails-Expelling Curse or something I’d rather know Dark magic if that’s what it takes to protect myself, thanks.”

“I know, I know,” Sirius said, rolling his eyes. “I grew up in a family of Slytherins, remember? Might not think like one of you but I’ve heard _all_ the speeches. How’d Krum react?”

“Was pissed at first. We talked last night and sorted it out. He’s not stupid enough, or jealous enough, to believe it was Jules and my doing, either,” Harry said. “Thank Merlin for that. He’d be a dangerous enemy.”

“Karkaroff, too,” Sirius said. “Watch him.”

“Moody’s watching him,” Harry said. “And Karkaroff’s antagonizing Moody. I might have to send him flowers for keeping the crazy ex-Auror sidetracked from following Slytherins around and turning us into various animals for ‘disciplinary purposes’.”

Sirius laughed. “Hex the flowers to cough itching powder in his face.”

“You can do that?” Harry said, interested.

“I’ll owl you the spell,” Sirius said, smirking. “You can do it with flour if you want something less, er, actually harmful.”

 _Or valerian root soaked in Flesh-Eating Potion and dried and ground to a powder_ , Harry thought, remembering a particular method of delivering pain and/or death he’d read about over the summer. The powder would react with skin oils and create a stronger version of the effect of simply pouring the potion on someone directly. And it was nearly impossible to heal. Getting it in the eyes and sinuses would be… if not lethal, then a _really_ painful and scarring (literally) experience. He’d have to look into that.

“I’ll keep someone with me all the time,” Harry said. “And I’ll watch my back. I mean… I hate Dumbledore, but if nothing else he’s a fantastic deterrent to Dark wizards _actively_ trying to murder his students, so unless someone runs into the arena or something during one of the tasks and Avadas me, I should be fine.”

Sirius snorted. “Merlin, I shouldn’t be laughing at that… Seriously, if you want me to come up there, I’ll come. Vanessa said her firm can contract out and get someone to be my Wizengamot proxy on as short as six hours’ notice—I told her to use Hazel if I ever need it. I can owl them and be settled in the Three Broomsticks by lunch tomorrow.”

“It’s fine,” Harry said. “Really. I’ll keep the mirror on me, too, and if anything happens I’ll contact you and you can Floo up here, it’ll be almost as easy as you staying in Hogsmeade. And they have spectator sections for the tasks. I’ll see you then. The first one is November twenty-fourth. Oh, and the Slytherin sixth years have taken it upon themselves to tutor me.”

“What? Really?”

Harry shrugged. “The fifth and seventh years all have exams to study for. We went with Wednesdays after class and Sundays noon to dinner. They’ll work me into the ground, probably, but it should help.”

Sirius shook his head. “I think they might actually be more of a danger to you than the Tournament.”

Harry raised his eyebrows.

“You were supposed to deny that,” Sirius said. “It was a joke.”

“Yeah…” Harry said. “But there was a bit of truth in there.” He checked his watch. “I have to go, I’m meeting them soon.”

“Okay. Be safe,” Sirius said. “If you go and get yourself killed I’m going to yell at your urn in the Potter tomb, I don’t care how thoroughly James wards the place to keep me out.” 

Harry snickered at that image. “Thanks, Sirius. I’ll do my best. Talk to you soon.”

 

Harry had been strengthening, tweaking, layering, and changing the wards on the entrance to the Knights Room for two years now with help from all his friends. One of the wards was anchored with runes painted in a specially brewed technically-not-illegal potion he’d found reference to in an ancient, cracked book from the Chamber of Secrets, one of only two he’d been able to partially read so far, and even Daphne, Theo, and Hermione working together hadn’t managed to bring it down when Harry asked them to test it. The group of sixth years refused to take his word and spent an hour distracted by the ward while Harry worked on the antidote project in his favorite chair.

Hestia finally just resorted to the password and stepped inside. “You did that, Potter?” she said.

“Yep.” He didn’t look up as Flora, Kinney, Adrian Pucey, and Peregrine Derrick filed inside behind her. “Just last month, actually.”

He _did_ look up in time to see the slow smiles overtaking Adrian and Flora’s faces. “Maybe this won’t be as hard as we thought,” Kinney said.

Adrian elbowed him. “We tried to tell you, Kinney.”

Kinney scowled at Adrian. “Prat.”

“Let’s get on with this,” Flora said.

“Okay, Potter,” Hestia said, pulling off her bag and yanking out a massive folder. “We went to Snape and got him to requisition Ministry records of all the Tournaments and their tasks. He can fast-track it using the “academic purposes” excuse. You’re going to study these on your own, and so are we, and get a sense of the kind of shit you’ll be facing so we know what to throw at you. For now let’s just all go over them together and see where we should start on Wednesday.”

Harry resigned himself to a long and exhausting school year.

 

He found himself with enough magical energy left that evening to creep down to the Chamber and work on his Imperius Curse a bit more. The thrill of making rats and mice dance on their hind legs or throw themselves down Eriss’ throat (she only let him test this once, complaining that it took all the fun out of hunting) never wore off completely but he was learning to balance it.

His headache wasn’t even that bad after thirty minutes of work.

Of course, casting it on a person would be exponentially harder. But he didn’t intend to do so unless there was literally no other option, and desperation tended to leave witches and wizards able to cast spells they couldn’t otherwise, so he wasn’t especially worried about not testing his skills on actual people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N 1: For anyone who hasn’t checked Notifications in the last week, I added a chapter on the layout of Grimmauld Place, complete with floor plans drawn in Microsoft OneNote. I spent about 3-4 hours on the project, which is probably a lot more than it deserved, but if anyone wanted help visualizing the interior of 12 Grimmauld Place, it’s there. 
> 
> A/N 2: New fic rec, for anyone that likes Tomione, morally grey characters, fantastic and IC characters, coherent plots, brilliant in-world plotting and politics, and long fanfic, check out Strange Attractors by Mistakes_and_Experiments on AO3. It has a weirdly low hit count but I just binged all 180k words of their WIP in about 2 days. It was updated about a week ago, and it’s incredible.


	13. The First Task

The atmosphere the next week vibrated with the highest level of tension Harry had ever experienced.

It was worse than second year when everyone thought he was the Heir of Slytherin and Hermione was in the hospital wing and he’d had to fend off curses every five meters in the halls. The Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors were particularly vicious in their assaults: Theo had to spend an hour helping Harry get the tentacles off his face on Tuesday, he got really good at bone-healing charms after a bit of a fad for _os fractus_ aimed at the shins swept Gryffindor, and went to Pomfrey for her to heal him of a _dunecortex_ that left his skin pale, weak, and exceedingly prone to tearing and weeping blood.

The Slytherins supported him, at least in public. He still had to deal with petty duels and challenges in the common room from those who didn’t believe he hadn’t done it on purpose and considered him an attention-seeking wannabe Gryffindor who needed to be taken down a few pegs. Avoiding the common room would be seen as a weakness, so Harry made a point of spending at least two hours there a day and after he sent a fifth year to the hospital wing with a collapsed lung— _one_ lung down wasn’t fatal, only painful, and it made his point quite nicely—his House mates mostly left him alone. And Viktor lived up to his words and didn’t seem to care; he kept eating with Harry’s friends at meals and said that he had shut down some plans among the Durmstrang students to take revenge. Niklas and Timur quietly followed his lead and the three Durmstrang boys quickly became well-liked by all Harry’s friends. He noticed some subtle glances thrown Hermione’s way by Viktor and smirked to himself.

Jules, though—Jules, for once, might have had it worse.

Gryffindor loved him, but none of them believed him. Ronald was still ignoring him with Finnegan and Thomas awkward liaisons between the two former friends. Most of Ravenclaw turned on both Potter twins, convinced Jules was addicted to fame and Harry out for his brother’s blood, and he’d never seen the Hufflepuffs this pissed off. Only Neville stuck by Jules and that seemed driven more out of a sense of fairness and principle than actual fondness. No one, least of all Jules, could forget that Neville was Harry’s friend first. Jules, Harry, Justin, Hermione, and Neville worked together in the library three times that week and Jules was decent the entire time, even to Blaise and Pansy, when they showed up. Theo and Daphne flatly refused on the grounds that they didn’t think they could resist the urge to needle him and didn’t want to destroy Harry’s budding efforts to make nice with his brother.

Possibly, Harry thought, the _only_ good thing to come out of all this mess was that he and Jules now had a common enemy. And it was a golden opportunity for him to get Jules in his debt, albeit grudgingly. Not that Neville knew that was why Harry was so willing to try and get along. He and Hermione might suspect, and Justin definitely did, but none of them said a word.

He was quite certain that double Potions on Friday was going to be one of the most entertaining classes he’d ever had at Hogwarts.

 

The Slytherins, as usual, were the first to arrive outside Snape’s classroom. Their Head of House expected all his snakes to maintain an E average in his class, be on time, and give him opportunities to make Gryffindors look like idiots. In return, they were the favored students and got to watch him make the Gryffindors look like idiots. Harry had once been angry about this. After three years of enduring Dumbledore, Hagrid, Lupin, Sprout, McGonagall, Flitwick, and even Babbling favor everyone else, he cared very little that the other Houses had one class out of nine during which they got the short end of the stick.

Jules, when he slouched up to class next to Neville, looked miserable. Hermione was trailing them but it was clear she was more opposing Ronald than supporting Jules, based on the periodic glares she shot over her shoulder at the redhead.

“Harry,” Neville said, coming over immediately. “How is… everything?”

“Fantastic,” Harry said sarcastically.

Jules lingered awkwardly on the Gryffindor side of the hallway. Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, and Bulstrode were leering unpleasantly in his direction and he wasn’t nearly as comfortable mingling with Slytherins as Neville and Hermione.

“I heard Snape’s going to test the antidotes today,” Hermione said, bouncing anxiously on her toes. “On a _student._ ”

“Scare stories,” Theo scoffed. “Merlin, ‘Mione, don’t fall for that crap, it’s just hippogriff crap the older set make up.”

“Besides, if he picked someone to test, it would be Boy Wonder, the Weasel, or the resident pyromaniac,” Blaise said. “Not you.”

“Well, I don’t want to see any of _them_ get poisoned…” Hermione said.

“He won’t let anyone die,” Pansy said flippantly.

Hermione scowled. “Was that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Yes,” Pansy said, “actually, it was.”

“Don’t deny it, ‘Mione, your worries are put to rest,” Blaise teased, throwing an arm around her shoulders.

Hermione shoved at him with a bit of a blush coloring her cheeks. “Sod off, Zabini.”

Across the hall, Ronald coughed out something that sounded suspiciously like _“Traitor”._

Jules rubbed at his temples. The gesture reminded Harry so much of himself that he was slow to register the rising tension and didn’t have a chance to jump in before—

“I am _not_ ,” Hermione snapped, whirling around on Ronald with her bushy hair flying.

“Conniving with the snakes,” Finnegan said, “seems traitorous to me—”

“Oh, _conniving_ , a three-syllable word,” Blaise said with mock surprise.

Daphne laughed and tapped her wand against her left palm.

“Only took him four years to think of something other than _slimy_ ,” Pansy sneered.

“Hermione,” Harry said quietly, watching Hermione draw herself up into a bushy-haired tower of indignant fury, “let it go.”

“I will not,” she said. “Apologize, please, Ronald. Your petty, childish prejudices against a quarter of the student body are getting really old.”

 _Fucking Gryffindors and their fucking principles_ , Harry thought sourly. Hopefully Snape showed up before this got really ugly.

Neville stared a bit helplessly between Hermione, Harry, and Ronald.

“I don’t think so,” Ronald laughed.

Harry looked at Jules. _Control your friend_ , he mouthed.

Jules looked from him to Ronald, and then down at the floor.

Sudden fury bloomed in Harry’s stomach. Ronald had _just_ betrayed Jules and Jules was _still_ too hesitant to piss off his supposed friend.

“You are an _arse_ ,” Hermione said angrily.

Thomas rolled his eyes. “Yeah, and you’re an insufferable swot whose only friends are probably using you,” he said.

“For now it’s your brains,” Finnegan said with a leer and a crass gesture.

Hermione stepped back, shocked and hurt. Tears shone in her eyes.

“You bastard,” Blaise said, insouciance suddenly gone. Theo was eyeing Finnegan with a nasty gleam in his eye.

But it was Malfoy who stepped forward and flanked Hermione first, Malfoy and Neville, while Jules hesitated by the wall and Harry wished he’d started on the Cruciatus rather than the Imperius.  

“Apologize, Finnegan,” Malfoy hissed. “ _Now.”_

There was a long, tense moment. Harry measured everyone’s stances and reactions. The next person to move would set someone off. He was frozen in place along. Theo and Daphne were humming with potential violence.

Malfoy and Finnegan moved at the exact same time.

 _“Densaugeo!”_ Finnegan shouted.

 _“Furnunculus!”_ Malfoy screamed.

Both boys moved, and both spells missed. Malfoy’s hit Lavender Brown, who screamed and hid her face as massive boils cropped up all over it. Finnegan’s hit Hermione in the cheek. She shrieked too and staggered back.

Whimpering in panic, she clutched her mouth.

Daphne and Blaise closed ranks around her instantly, while Pansy and Theo warded the Gryffindors off with raised wands and furious expressions. Bulstrode muttered something under her breath and marched forward to join them, whacking her wand threateningly against her leg. Malfoy and Harry both tried several counters but nothing stopped Hermione’s teeth growing down past her chin.

She felt them and let out a panicked cry.

“I’ll kill him,” Harry heard himself whisper.

 _“No,”_ Neville said.

Harry glared at him. “I’m not so stupid as to do it _now_ ,” he snarled.

Neville stared him down, stubbornly ignoring Harry’s icy expression and snapping eyes. “No killing,” he repeated.

“Is a little maiming fine?” Harry said.

“Nothing permanent.”

_“Fine.”_

Malfoy stared back and forth between them. He hovered like he wasn’t sure whether Hermione would let him touch her shoulder or something. Harry felt like someone should but fuck, he didn’t know how to deal with crying people, he didn’t even know how to deal with _hugging_ on a _good_ day—

Fortunately, Neville solved both of their dilemmas. He wrapped both arms around Hermione and let her hide her face in his chest. Harry breathed and kept his back turned to the scene behind him, stubbornly forcing his anger aside until he was clear-headed and firmly under control, only dimly aware of a shouting match going on between Theo and Pansy on one side and Ronald and Finnegan on the other.

“What is all this noise about?” said a soft, deadly voice.

Harry blinked and turned back around.

The Slytherins fell silent at the approach of the Potions Master and retreated to their usual line along the side of the corridor as if they’d never left. The Gryffindors, including Jules, glared furiously at Snape. Brown kept up a steady stream of pained whimpers and Hermione was sniffling behind her hands.

“Explain,” Snape said to Malfoy.

“Finnegan attacked me, sir—”

“We attacked each other at the same time!” Finnegan yelled.

“He was provoked, Professor,” Harry said. “Finnegan… well, he made some _exceedingly_ crass insinuations about Miss Granger—”

“Did I ask for your input, Potter?” Snape sneered, but it lacked any real bite; Harry could see the cold malice in the man’s eyes was not aimed at him, so he shut his mouth with a respectful “Apologies, sir.”

“He hit Miss Granger,” Malfoy said, nodding at where Hermione still had her face hidden against Neville.

“Show me,” Snape ordered.

Pansy laid a hand on Hermione’s shoulder as she slowly lifted her head and glared defiantly at Snape. Her front teeth, always a bit on the large size, now put a beaver’s to shame.

“Hospital wing, Miss Granger,” Snape said. “Miss Greengrass, if you would be so kind as to take her.”

“Yes, sir,” Daphne said, and wrapped an arm around Hermione’s shoulders as the two girls hurried away. Behind Snape’s back, Ronald shot them the V. Daphne glanced back at Harry once, as if to say _take care of that_ , and then they were gone.

“Malfoy got Lavender!” Jules said, speaking up for the first time.

Brown’s hands had to be pried off her face by Patil and Thomas. Her skin now resembled something that would not have looked out of place in a medical textbook.

“I see no difference,” Snape said icily.

Brown let out a wail and took off running, leaving her bag on the floor. Harry pretended not to notice Blaise aiming a whispered Permanent Sticking Charm at it.

Ronald, Finnegan, and Jules all started shouting at Snape at the same time. Evidently their hatred of the Slytherin Head was stronger, temporarily, than whatever problems existed at the present between Jules and Ronald. No one could tell exactly what they were saying but it was easy to get the gist.

“Silence,” Snape said, in his silkiest voice. “Let’s see. Fifty points from Gryffindor, and a detention each for the Gryffindor Potter, Weasley, and Finnegan. Get in your seats before I make one detention into seven.”

Glaring sullenly, the Gryffindors slunk into the classroom.

Snape ignored the Slytherins completely and glided in on their heels.

Harry and Theo exchanged a glance as they filed into the classroom and took their usual seats, Theo with Blaise and Harry with Neville. Neither of them said a word, but then again, they didn’t need to.

The tension in the classroom was so thick you could’ve choked on it. Harry was actually relieved when the squeaky Gryffindor third year, Colin Creevey, showed up requesting both Jules and Harry for some kind of idiotic champions’ photo shoot. Snape let them both go with extreme reluctance.

“You need to muzzle your minions,” Harry said as soon as the door closed behind them.

“What—” Creevey began.

“Like you’re one to talk about having _minions_ , d’you think I haven’t noticed you’ve got all your so-called friends on a leash?” Jules demanded.

Harry lifted his nose disdainfully. “We trust each other’s judgment, Jules, as friends _do_ , and seeing as you’re _my_ brother, of course they take their cues from me on how to behave around you. If you think I’ve got _leashes_ on them you’re even less observant than I thought.”

“What’s going on?” Creevey squeaked.

“This doesn’t concern you,” Harry said without even looking at the boy. “Jules. Seriously. Grudges are one thing but Finnegan was _way_ out of line—and Hermione’s not even a Slytherin so don’t you dare claim House rivalry.”

“Malfoy stood up for her and he’s the _worst_ of you lot,” Jules protested. “She’s an idiot if she thinks he’s doing anything other than using her—he’s the worst sort of blood purist—”

“Hermione’s been trouncing Malfoy in exams for years, and he’s a pretentious snob and not very subtle but he’s also not so delusional as to fail to notice that and wonder what it means,” Harry said. “ _Some_ people manage to grow up and leave childish prejudices and blind bigotry behind. I know it’s a hard concept for you to grasp—”

“Don’t tell me he’s not using her!” Jules said angrily. “Seamus went too far, I’ll talk to him, but he and Dean were just trying to point out that Malfoy’s a risk! The rest of you lot too, but _especially_ him!”

“I’m going to overlook the fact that you just implied I’m a _risk_ to one of my _best friends_ ,” Harry said, “and focus on this irritating and overbearing idea that Hermione somehow needs your protection. She’s a smart girl. She can handle herself. And somehow, given how poorly you and your friends have treated her for years, I don’t think she much appreciates you meddling in her life even if it’s supposedly to ‘help’ her. You don’t know enough about her to know what would help and what wouldn’t!”

“It doesn’t take a genius to know keeping a Muggle-born away from a pack of lying snakes is helpful!”

“You know what, Jules, you’re the one that keeps bringing up her blood status!” Harry snapped right back, finally losing his temper. “All my friends you call _junior Death Eaters_ got over it! Ability over blood! And you supposedly tolerant Gryffindors are the ones who won’t let it fucking go!”

He realized they’d stopped in the middle of the hallway and were standing nose to nose, glaring. Harry had never been more conscious of the height and weight difference between them. Even years of regular meals and Quidditch workouts hadn’t managed to give him as much muscle as Jules, and the Dursleys had doomed Harry to forever be a few inches shorter than his twin.

Lucky he had magic, then. The great equalizer.

“Er,” Creevey said, sounding terrified, “we… we’re going to… to be late…”

“Right,” Harry said pleasantly, stepping back. “Apologies, Creevey, isn’t it? My brother and I just have some… differences of opinion that we should probably let lie.”

“I’ll talk to Seamus,” Jules repeated, sounding like the words tasted bad. “And that’s _all_.”

Harry nodded stiffly. “You’re lucky Neville has such a good sense of fairness,” was all he said before stalking off. Creevey had to run to catch up and Jules trailed just a little behind the entire rest of the way to their destination.

Creevey led them to an unused classroom on the first floor. It was relatively small; all the furniture had been shoved to one side except for three desks pushed end to end and covered in a velvet cloth. Delacour and Diggory were talking off to one side, while Viktor stood moodily in the corner.

Harry hesitated just inside. He wasn’t sure if Viktor wanted to hide that they were friendly for some reason.

His uncertainty died as Viktor looked up and smiled very slightly (which on his sullen face was quite a change) upon seeing Harry. With a return grin, Harry walked over. “Ready for some publicity?” he said.

“I vould prefer to avoid this,” Viktor admitted, “but it is somevat normal.”

“Least you’re not the only one who was already a celebrity,” Harry said, nodding at Jules, who loitered awkwardly near the door and tried to fend off the enthusiastic Bagman.

“He does not handle it vell,” Viktor said, and then looked suddenly apologetic. “Ah, I know he is your brother—”

“It’s fine,” Harry said. “I happen to agree with you.  D’you know what all this is?”

“Photographs,” Viktor said gloomily. “And something to do vith our vands.”

“Ah,” said Harry. He surreptitiously reached into his bag and swapped his ash wand, which was in his holster, with the holly. He’d been using the ash more lately, but someone might notice if his wand wasn’t the one he’d been using for school for the last three years.

Harry cocked his head and eavesdropped as a witch in magenta robes, who turned out to be Rita Skeeter, the cleverly nasty reporter favored by the Prophet for their sensational pieces, convinced Jules to give her an interview. He smirked as she dragged him into a closet and slammed the door.

“If you are… villing to speak of that, I notice your brother did not seem very happy vith you,” Viktor said. “Do you not get along?”

“Don’t you read the tabloids, Viktor?” Harry said with an unamused smile. “I’ve been estranged from my birth family since my Sorting. Dear old Dad’s not fond of Slytherins. He hasn’t spoken civilly to me since he was convicted of criminal negligence and Dumbledore for malfeasance of office.”

“I read about that,” Viktor said. “Your godfather vas innocent, yes?”

Harry nodded.

Viktor frowned. “I have not heard good things about Azkaban.”

“That’d be right,” Harry said flatly. “It’s… I mean, I’ve never been, but Sirius’ recovery…”

He didn’t finish, but Viktor seemed to get it, and nodded. “So vat did you and Julian fight for?”

Harry sighed and told the story.

Viktor’s expression went from surprised to angry to downright menacing as Harry talked. “I do not like this Ronald Vessley,” he growled. “Or Finn-gan.”

“They’re prats,” Harry said succinctly.

Madame Maxime swept into the room with Crouch and Karkaroff in her wake, cutting them off. Harry blinked when Ollivander drifted in after them and went to wait quietly by the window. Delacour was still tossing her hair while Diggory smiled at her and the paunchy photographer watched. Harry didn’t trust Delacour an inch but he kind of wanted to cast a rotting curse at a certain part of the photographer’s anatomy for how he was leering at a teenaged girl. Or just watch Delacour do it. He noted a sudden and uncharacteristic wellspring of sympathy for her; being (probably) part veela couldn’t be easy. Girls would get jealous and half the boys around her would lose their rational minds.

Dumbledore was the last to enter. Harry forced vapid thoughts of homework and cold autumn sunlight on Daphne’s hair and worry about Hermione to the front of his mind just in case as Dumbledore’s twinkling gaze caught on his for a moment.

“Good afternoon,” Dumbledore said pleasantly. “We seem to be missing a champion?”

“Rita pulled him aside for an interview,” Bagman beamed, pointing at the closet.

“Ah,” Dumbledore said, already moving.

Harry watched eagerly as Dumbledore ripped open the closet door.

“Dumbledore!” Skeeter cried with evident delight and also a flurry of movement characteristic of someone with something to hide. Jules tumbled out, looking furious. “How are you? I hope you saw my piece over the summer about the International Confederation of Wizards?” she continued, standing up and holding out a hand. Her entire bearing said that sitting in a broom closet with a student for an interview was the most comfortable and normal thing she’d done all week.

“Enchantingly nasty,” Dumbledore said. “I particularly enjoyed your description of me as an obsolete dingbat.”

Harry had to give the old man credit for composure; he sounded nothing but amused. He also found himself agreeing with Skeeter’s opinion.

Skeeter smiled. “I was just making the point that some of your ideas are a little outdated, Dumbledore, and that wizards on the street—”

“I would be delighted to hear the reasoning behind the rudeness, Rita,” Dumbledore said with a bow, “but I’m afraid we will have to discuss the matter later. The Weighing of the Wands is about to start, and it cannot take place if one of our champions is hidden away in a closet.”

Jules hurried over. Crouch gestured impatiently and all five champions drew up chairs by the door and sat down facing their judges, the photographer, and Skeeter, all arrayed behind the velvet-covered desks. Skeeter slipped out a parchment, sucked furiously on the tip of a bright green Quick-Quotes Quill, and stood it neatly on the parchment where it quivered and held itself upright.

Dumbledore introduced Ollivander, who examined all five wands curiously and competently. He tested each, confirming as he did so that Delacour had a veela grandmother whose hair made up the core of her wand, and admonished Jules for poor wand care, to Harry’s delight. He lingered longest over Jules’ wand and eyed Harry unreadably as he made a fountain of wine shoot out of the end of the holly.

“All wands are still in excellent working order,” Ollivander finally declared. Harry was exceedingly relieved to take the holly back and tuck it back in its holster.

“Thank you all,” Dumbledore said. “You may all return to your lessons—or perhaps you’d best simply return to dinner—”

Jules was quick to get to his feet, still glaring rather unsportingly in Skeeter’s direction—just _what_ she’d said to him Harry very much wanted to know—but Bagman cut them off. “Photos, Dumbledore, photos!” he shouted. “All the judges and champions, what do you say, eh, Rita?”

“Ah—yes, let’s do those first,” said Skeeter, whose eyes were still on Jules. “And perhaps some individual shots.”

The photographs took an insufferably long time. Maxime either cast everyone into shadow or didn’t fit in the frame, as the photographer couldn’t back far enough away in the narrow classroom to get her in it; eventually he made her sit while everyone else stood. Karkaroff wouldn’t stop twirling his goatee and Viktor just lurked at the back of the group, not changing posture or expression as the time passed, obviously used to this. Delacour tossed her hair and flirted with Diggory and Jules glared at Skeeter but puffed out his chest and grinned a winning Gryffindorish smile at the photographer when Skeeter dragged him forward. Harry just kept a coolly polite expression, a relaxed and casual bearing, and stood agreeably wherever they put him, which turned out to be in a slightly shadowed spot near Karkaroff. He sighed internally at the rather unsubtle positioning and didn’t bother to argue, preferring to get out of here before he lost his patience and surreptitiously hexed the camera into pieces just to end the torture.

Skeeter insisted on individual shots of all the champions. Jules went first, and took the longest. Crouch got bored and left before Jules was finished. Maxime left with Delacour, who went second; Dumbledore stuck around after Diggory got his portrait taken third and seemed to be waiting to supervise Harry’s, though whether this was to protect Harry from Skeeter or himself from anything Harry might say to Skeeter Harry could not say. Viktor went fourth and slouched out with Karkaroff, until only Bagman, Dumbledore, Skeeter, and the photographer remained with Harry.

“Sit there, dear boy,” Skeeter said with a predatory smile. “Angle your head a little… give me a smile… hands in your lap… There you go, this one knows how to pose…”

Harry blinked away the afterimage of the flash from the slightly smoking camera. “Is that all, sir?” he said.

“Yes, you may go,” Dumbledore said. _Twinkling._

Harry resolutely crushed the mental image of landing a _crucio_ on this horrible holier-than-thou hypocritical arse and left the room.

Viktor was leaning on the wall opposite. “Karkaroff vas annoying,” he said by way of explanation.

Harry just nodded and they headed towards the Great Hall in companionable silence. Harry couldn’t decide if Viktor’s reserve was natural or just born of not being comfortable speaking in English, and didn’t particularly care; he appreciated someone who didn’t need to fill every silence with idle chatter.

“Harry—Harry Potter!”

Both of them paused. “That voman is annoying also,” Viktor muttered. “Those _robes._ ”

Harry snickered as he turned around to greet Rita Skeeter. “Ms. Skeeter,” he said pleasantly. “How can I help you?”

“Excellent manners,” she said, beaming, obviously having chased after them from the classroom. She clutched a scroll with that quill hovering over it. “I was wondering if I might ask you some questions…”

The scroll was already bouncing slightly under the enthusiastic scribbling of the quill.

“Ms. Skeeter,” Harry said with a condescending smile. “I hope you do not think I am ignorant as to the sorts of notes taken by a Quick-Quotes Quill.”

Her predatory expression faltered slightly. “Of course not—”

“Because,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken, smile turning sharp and cold, “if you print so much as a word about me that you do not clear with me first, or that is in any way untrue or _implies_ anything untrue, I will not hesitate to sue you for libel. I have an excellent legal team, I have a godfather recently released form Azkaban who is _very_ interested in my personal welfare, and my closest friends hail from some of the most influential and established families of our good island. Do I make myself clear?”

Skeeter examined him shrewdly for a long moment, before very slowly plucking the Quick-Quotes Quill out of the air and replacing it with a purple one. “Perfectly, Mr. Potter,” she said.

Harry held out his hand. After a second’s hesitation, she handed him the purple quill. Harry cast a few diagnostic spells, determined that it would record, verbatim, only that which people consented to be recorded as saying, and handed it back with a nod.

Skeeter positioned it over her notepad. “You are certainly an… intriguing one, aren’t you? And already friends with the Durmstrang champion, I see.”

He almost would’ve liked her, if it hadn’t been for her _appalling_ taste in personal presentation. She just did not stop. “Yes, well, this Tournament is designed to foster goodwill and cooperation between the magical youth of our various cultures,” he said smoothly. “I would be remiss to shun my competitors just because I didn’t choose to enter. You can quote me on that, if you like.”

“So you deny the allegations that you illegally entered yourself,” she said.

He shrugged. “I’m fourteen, Ms. Skeeter. Do you really find it plausible that I could’ve bypassed Albus Dumbledore’s Age Line _and_ fooled the Goblet of Fire?”

“Then how did your name end up in the Goblet?”

“I suggest you ask one of the school administrators,” Harry said. “They’re adults, and far wiser and better able to answer than I am. Last I heard, Alastor Moody had some interesting theories.”

“You dance well, Mr. Potter,” Skeeter said with a sly smile.

“I haven’t had much choice but to learn the steps,” he said. “Good afternoon, Ms. Skeeter.”

She was still standing there when Harry and Viktor walked out of sight.

“Impressive,” Viktor said, right before they got to the Great Hall.

“I’d rather stay out of the papers as much as possible,” Harry said. “Someone’s trying to kill me. Publicity is the _opposite_ of what I want right now. Jules can make an idiot of himself and draw people’s fire.”

“I am starting to understand the vay people speak of your House,” Viktor said.

Harry smiled.

 

In three days, Skeeter published her article about the Tournament, and life for Jules got, impossibly, worse. Skeeter had managed to paint him as an emotional wreck who still cried for his lost mother and implied a relationship with Hermione Granger of all people. Fortunately, no one took it very seriously, since Hermione and Jules had never once gotten along.

That evening, Ronald Weasley had a hysterical screaming fit at the dinner table, jumped up, slapped himself all over, pissed his pants, and then ran from the Great Hall and was not found until three hours later, curled up in a broom closet at the base of Gryffindor Tower. He later admitted he’d been _convinced_ he was covered in spiders. Seamus Finnegan and Dean Thomas began vomiting up blood shortly after he left and had to spend the night in the hospital wing while Pomfrey healed their intestines. She labeled the cause of the incident as the boys having not properly washed their hands after Herbology and some of the magical plant residue reacting with their food and the magic in the Great Hall. Magic was, after all, a chaotic and ill-understood force even after three millennia of recorded study. If anyone noticed the coldly satisfied looks on several faces at the Slytherin table—namely Harry Potter, Theo Nott, Daphne Greengrass, Draco Malfoy, and Viktor Krum—they said nothing. Nor did they mention that after that feast, Harry Potter could be seen stopping to talk to the Weasley twins in the Great Hall about something that left all three of them wearing positively malicious smiles.

 

“Nice teeth,” Harry said to Hermione the next day.

“Thanks,” she said with a mischievous smile. It was a very different smile from the one she’d sported only two days before: straight and even. “I went to Pomfrey like Snape said, and she held up a mirror and told me to stop her when they were back to how they normally were. And I just… let her carry on a bit.” Her smile widened. “Mum and Dad won’t be too pleased. I’ve been trying to persuade them to let me shrink them for ages, but they wanted me to carry on like a Muggle and get braces. They’re dentists, they don’t think teeth and magic should mix.”

“If they don’t understand magic, just say it was an accident,” Pansy said.

Theo threw an arm around Hermione’s shoulders and she pushed him off, laughing. “It looks good,” he said with a smirk.

 

 Harry managed to dodge most of the fallout of the article, though Hufflepuffs still booed at him in the halls and Gryffindors still tried to curse him. He didn’t even try to keep Slytherins from quoting bits of the article at Jules; he thought if he worded it cleverly he could’ve gotten his year and those below to stop completely and the upper years to back off some, but Jules had just _stood there_ while his friends insulted Slytherin and then Hermione. Harry would keep studying with him because Jules was his brother and he hadn’t _joined in_ per se and Neville was a genuinely kind person. That was it.

Jules walked around with his jaw set and his eyes tense and angry. Harry wrote Skeeter a very polite letter that suggested she leave Hermione Granger out of any and all future articles written about the champions in such a way that Skeeter would get laughed at for paranoia if she tried to point out the implied threat to anyone else. Neville took to helping Jules prepare for the Tournament, haranguing Hermione into helping even when she grumbled about needing to work on her homework.

The sixth years drilled Harry to exhaustion in everything from barely legal curses to a wide array of first-year charms. He slipped the third day they trained with him and cast a _protego_ silently. After they got over their shock, Hestia and Everett—by that point Harry was on a first-name basis with even those he hadn’t previously played Quidditch with—started drilling him on nonverbal casting. They dueled, they debated runes, they brewed potions, they pounded endless lists of charms and useful spells into his head. Harry slept and breathed magic. He’d look over his homework, dash off a bullet-point list of main points and ideas and a rough framework for each essay, and then hand it off to Theo, Daphne, Blaise, or Pansy, who’d write the thing out and then magically change the handwriting to his. Malfoy even helped out with History of Magic essays. He was very good at rambling about politics and government long enough to satisfy Binns while not actually saying much at all.  

 

A week before the first task, they were allowed to go to Hogsmeade. The journals were nearly working and just needed a bit of fine-tuning, and Harry had let his independent potions brewing lapse in the face of everything else, so he postponed the Saturday Knights Room sessions with Viktor and Timur and Niklas and went to Hogsmeade with his friends.

“Jules is going in his Cloak,” Neville told them as the group walked into the village. “He said he was planning to meet Seamus and Dean there… Ron’s not feeling well, he stayed in the dorms.”

“Lucky us,” Theo said. “Maybe we can avoid any especially nasty insults today.”

“Or another article like the last one,” Hermione said, wrinkling up her nose in distaste at the sight of Rita Skeeter and her photographer friend. Harry had been amused at how cleverly they’d set him off to the side in Karkaroff’s shadow. He looked like a lurking, smaller, sharper foil to Jules’ Gryffindorish glory in the group photograph. Not that it mattered; no one paid him any attention after the article. They were too busy mocking Jules.

They wandered through Honeydukes and then the bookshop. All of them stocked up on their favorite sweets. Harry, Theo, Hermione, and Neville all picked out a new book or two each that looked interesting.

Carrying bags of purchases and trading sneaky Trip Jinxes, they headed back up the street and window shopped for a bit, the girls all eyeing some new dress robes in Gladrags Wizardwear, before Hermione suggested they go get butterbeers to ward off the chill.

Harry tuned out Neville and Theo’s argument about Neville’s new book _(Rural Chinese Herb-Lore_ ) and ordered eight butterbeers. Madam Rosmerta poured the drinks and Blaise levitated them over to an empty table with a muttered incantation.

“To friends,” Neville said with a grin, lifting his butterbeer.

“To Harry surviving the first task,” Pansy countered.

“Your faith in me is truly inspirational,” Harry said solemnly.

Pansy stuck her tongue out at him and knocked back half the butterbeer in one go.

“Ladylike,” Daphne sniffed.

“Like you’re one to talk,” Hermoine said. “That stunt with Ronald and Seamus and Dean last week? _So_ ladylike.”

Daphne’s smile was slow, cold, and a perfect match for those Harry and Theo were suddenly wearing. “Revenge is always ladylike, Hermione, as long as you don’t get caught.”

Hermione grumbled something unintelligible and pulled out one of her new books.

Harry watched Moody and Hagrid drink together, and then he watched Moody’s attention catch on the corner where Finnegan, Brown, and Thomas were sitting, and then he watched Moody stump over there. When it came to talking to someone hidden under an Invisibility Cloak, Moody was subtle but Hagrid was not.

“The Dumbledore crony favors Gryffindor yet again,” he muttered.

His Slytherin friends plus Justin cast barely noticeable attention in the direction of his gaze; Hermione and Neville were a bit more obvious but not bad. “It’s not right,” Hermione said, voice low. “Bias in _any_ direction.”

“Is what it is,” Theo said with a sigh, studying his butterbeer.

Moody’s magical eye rolled over to Harry, briefly, before he left the pub. Harry stared back, blank-faced, and was pretty sure the eye would stay focused on him even after the man left the building.

He filed away the information that Moody could see through Invisibility Cloaks.

 

Viktor cornered him two days later.

Harry was a bit surprised to see him. Normally, the visiting students kept to themselves during the week; they had self-study projects to make up for spending a year away from their schools and the Hogwarts set had lessons. “What is it?”

“Dragons,” Viktor said bluntly. “The first task is dragons.”

Harry’s mouth fell open. _“What?”_

“Karkaroff saw them,” Viktor said. “In the vood. Maxime and your gamekeeper were there, too.”

“Hagrid,” Harry said. “Of _course_ he’d go show off the bloody dragons, I— _fuck_ , I’m _fourteen_ —I can’t handle a _dragon_ —”

“Ve only have to get past them,” Viktor said, looking a bit worried. Harry breathed and forced his panic away. Thank Merlin and Morgana for Occlumency. “Not kill them.”

“Oh good, that’s such a relief,” Harry muttered. Viktor looked puzzled and Harry waved it away; sarcasm didn’t seem to translate well.

“You are young,” Viktor said. “And—it did not seem right for Delacour and myself to know vile you did not.”

“Thanks.” Viktor would _definitely_ be a Gryffindor with that sense of fairness, if he ever came to Hogwarts.

Viktor walked away and Harry barely noticed. He stared at the wall, torn. The coldest and most Slytherin part of him whispered that he ought to keep this to himself. Use his advantage. But Jules was family and he was even less equipped for this than Harry.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered to himself, stomping off. Peeves shot around a corner at him and Harry leveled a glare at him with all his current irritation. To his shock, Peeves took one look at his face, blew a raspberry, and zoomed away.

He pretended to bump into Jules outside the Charms corridor. “Sorry,” he said aloud, and then, softer, “C’mon, be subtle about it,” and kept walking.

Jules caught up to him in a niche behind a suit of armor. “Good timing, I need to talk to you,” he said, wedging himself in. Harry wished he’d chosen a better hiding spot. Being jammed in a small space, with a person he didn’t trust blocking his exit, made him exceedingly tense.

“You first,” Harry said.

“The first task… it’s dragons,” Jules said.

Harry stared at him and blinked, putting the pieces together. “That’s… what I was coming to tell you. How did you… oh. Hagrid. Of course.” He let his head fall back against the wall, suddenly very tired. Hagrid had been willing to send one fourteen-year-old in against a Class XXXXX magical creature clueless while warning another. Typical.

“Yeah, he… wait, how did _you_ know?” Jules demanded.

Harry raised an unimpressed eyebrow, not about to give up that he and Viktor had a strong enough alliance that they shared this kind of information.

“Slytherins,” Jules said, without heat. “Look, all the champions will know. I saw Maxime there with Hagrid and Karkaroff was sneaking around in the woods and they’ll definitely tell. And I told Cedric.”

Harry resisted the urge to ask if Jules was an idiot. It couldn’t be undone and that would only confirm the ‘Slytherins are evil conniving gits’ idea in Jules’ head.

“Then Moody hauled me into his office, said something about being surprised I was so decent or some shit, and then talked about… well, apparently cheating’s a bit traditional, and he kind of hinted and gave me an idea I think I can try… but it’s not technically cheating, he didn’t teach me anything. Just talked me through it.” Jules looked guilty.

“Great. We’re all noble-minded and fair. I have a headache, can you please move?”

“I don’t understand you,” Jules said, backing out into the hall.

“Ditto,” Harry said.

The brothers looked at each other for a few seconds before Jules shrugged and left.

 

 Neville and Hermione told him about Jules’ sudden interest in Summoning Spells Monday at dinner. Harry brushed this off. He didn’t especially care about Jules deciding to learn a spell Harry had learned in second year, or how Jules was planning to get past the dragon. It would undoubtedly be some horrifically Gryffindorish straightforward brute-force method.

He had his own strategy to plan. It involved a transfiguration-based spell, fire-blocking runewards drawn into his robes with the same potion he’d brewed for the wards on the Knights Room, and an overpowered Chain-Binding Curse as a backup plan, and then transfiguring rocks to animals as the backup to his backup, and the Imperius Curse as his absolute last resort, to be used only if death was imminent and no one could help him.

 

Having class the same morning as the task was surreal. Harry drifted through Transfiguration, then History of Magic, his Occlumency shields working full strength to keep the utter, gibbering terror at bay. He’d set the fear aside and focused on preparations, because that was all he could do, but now the awareness that he would be facing one of the most dangerous magical creatures in existence, _alone_ , and he might very well die was pounding down on him and impossible to shake.

Theo cornered him after Charms. “You can’t have the Portkey on you,” he said in a low voice. “They’ve got enchantments over the entrance to wherever the dragons are held—if you walk in with any magical object other than your wand, you’ll be sanctioned for cheating.”

“Dammit,” Harry muttered. He pulled the ring off his finger and passed it over to Theo, and then tugged the Black library Portkey over his head. It hung on a cord around his neck at all times. “This one’s to Sirius’ place. Hang onto it for me?”

Theo nodded and tucked both into his pockets.

Harry left the Great Hall after a light lunch with Professor Snape.

“I assume you have a plan?” Snape said. “Gryffindors being so insufferably fair-minded. And given Hagrid’s utter inability to keep a secret.”

Harry’s lips twitched. It was unlike Snape to be so unsubtle. The man might actually be nervous. “Yes, sir. To all counts.”

“There are forty experienced wizards and witches on standby to handle… the situation… should things go wrong,” Snape said, not looking at his charge. Harry didn’t look up at him, either. “Try not to die.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

He didn’t have to look up to know Snape would be wearing his customary sneer.

They’d erected some kind of tent. Harr assumed it was to keep the champions from seeing the dragons on their own. He ducked inside, leaving Snape to go find a seat in the stands, and found that he was the second to last arrival.

“Harry! Hello!” Bagman said excitedly. “Make yourself right at home—just waiting on your brother now—”

Harry took a seat next to Delacour; he could see from Viktor’s posture that he wanted to be left alone. Delacour had lost a bit of her composure. She looked clammy and pale and determined.

They waited in silence, save for Bagman’s occasional expression of good cheer.

“I’m going to curse him,” Harry said under his breath after the seventh random such outburst.

Delacour shot him a look. He raised an eyebrow and she went back to ignoring him.

Finally, or maybe it was only a few minutes later, Jules ducked into the tent, looking as sweaty and nervous on the outside as Harry felt on the inside.

“Well, now we’re all here—time to fill you in!” Bagman said brightly. “When the audience has assembled, I’m going to be offering each of you this bag—” he held up a small sack of purple silk— “from which you will each select a small model of the thing you are going to face! There are different—er—varieties, you see. And I have to tell you something else too… ah, yes… your task is to _collect the golden egg!”_

No one responded. Bagman’s enthusiasm didn’t dim.

The five champions sat or stood in silence as hundreds of feet passed their tent, talking and chattering and laughing excitedly. Harry closed his eyes and pushed panic away. He could relax his mental shields and have a nervous breakdown later, when he was in the privacy of his warded bed with the curtains drawn. Right now it would only get him killed.

“Right then,” Bagman said, checking his watch, “ladies first, Miss Delacour…”

Delacour put a hand that shook slightly into the velvet bag and drew out a perfect miniature model of a dragon. A Welsh Green with a 2 around its neck on a card. Harry had been reading up on various species of dragon since Viktor warned him. It hissed and clambered up her sleeve, clinging with tiny claws. The French girl showed only determined resignation: Harry knew she’d been warned what she would face.

Cedric drew a blueish-gray Swedish Short-Snout with a 1. Viktor drew a Chinese Fireball with a 3. Jules pulled a Peruvian Vipertooth with a 4. Oddly, he sent a sudden panicked and uncertain look Harry’s direction upon seeing this.

Harry put his hand into the bag and drew out the only dragon left.

_Oh you are shitting me._

The number 5 was not a surprise. The breed—Hungarian Horntail—most definitely was. These dragons _actively_ sought out humans to kill them. And they brought it to a _school_ for _students_ to face.

It was suddenly more difficult to keep his mind clear and unclouded by terror.

Bagman pulled Jules aside for “a quick word.” Harry barely noticed. He sat back down next to Delacour while Diggory left the tent.

It was worse than he could’ve imagined to sit and listen. Part of him wanted to cast a _caesum sonare_ around himself but the larger part was morbidly fascinated. He couldn’t help but think of passing a car wreck on the highway and how it was hard to look away even when there were people on stretchers and emergency personnel working desperately. The crowd screamed and gasped and groaned and cheered in unison every time Diggory did something good or bad, stupid or brave.

Viktor stared at the ground. At a particularly loud gasp, Delacour shot to her feet, stared around wildly for a second, and then began pacing. Bagman’s commentary made everything a thousand times worse, since he didn’t bother to say what was actually _happening_ , only things like, “Ooooh, narrow miss there! Very narrow!” and “He’s taking risks, this one!” and “ _Clever_ move—pity it didn’t work!” Harry didn’t care overmuch for Diggory but if he died it wouldn’t bode well for Harry’s chances.

After fifteen minutes, he finally heard the deafening roar that could only mean Diggory had got the egg and made it out.

“Very good indeed!” Bagman bellowed. “And now the scores!”

He didn’t shout the marks. Harry supposed the judges were showing them to the crowds somehow.

“Miss Delacour, if you please!”

Delacour got shakily to her feet. Harry watched as she took a deep breath, and her spine straightened, and her fear slowly gave way to steely determination. He’d been right; there was more to this one than the empty-headed veela. The Goblet of Fire didn’t choose based on looks, after all. Viktor was proof of that.

Viktor ran through breathing exercises that had an almost ritualistic feel to them, as if he’d done this many, many times before. Some kind of pre-match calming habit, maybe. Jules sat with a sort of numb fear on his face, staring at the dirt, while Bagman repeated the entire horrid process with Fleur.

She only took ten minutes to get her egg. The whistle blew again.

“Good luck,” Harry said. Viktor nodded and got out a gruff “you too” before he left the tent.

Harry and Jules were left alone, avoiding each other’s eyes.

“Did you research dragon breeds?” Harry said.

Jules shook his head.

 _You idiot._ “Vipertooths are nasty, and the fastest fliers. Small. Maneuverable.”

“Good thing I’ve had Fred and George whacking Bludgers at me since I was six,” Jules said weakly. “Dodging practice.”

Harry didn’t even pretend to be amused. He had no room in his mind for amusement.

“Charlie said the Horntail was the worst the night Hagrid showed them to me,” Jules said. “It, er… they got nesting mothers.”

“Of course they did,” Harry muttered. It made sense in the context of the ‘golden egg.’

“What d’you know about Horntails?” Jules said.

Harry sneered. “That they shouldn’t be anywhere near teenagers, for one thing. They actively hunt humans. We’re their favorite prey.”

“Oh.” Jules didn’t seem to know what to say to that.

Viktor got his egg. The whistle blew. Jules left.

Harry closed his eyes and Occluded his mind as hard as he ever had before.

He paid no attention to the commentary, barely noticed when the crowd shrieked or gasped, and only blinked out of his trance when the whistle sounded for the last time.

 _Panic later_ , he told himself firmly, and walked out of the tent, past the trees, through a gap in the enclosure, all with a clear mind.

Hundreds of faces stared down at him from stands that surrounded the high walls of the enclosure. Rocks and boulders, pitted and scarred with scorch marks and craters, were strewn across a landscape of vegetation burned to ash. It looked like some dystopian hellscape from a bad movie. And at the other end sat the Horntail, crouched low over her clutch of eggs, hissing malevolently at him. Her eyes were yellow and unblinking, her wings half-furled, her tail spiked and thrashing. He catalogued her black scales and the chain around her neck that pinned her to the ground. The chain looked long enough to give Harry about twenty meters of safety on this half of the enclosure, but that was not much comfort: the Horntail could breathe fire up to sixteen meters, and even if the actual flames didn’t touch him, the heat could do a load of damage on its own.

He pointed his wand at his robes and started muttering the strongest fireproofing spells he knew, one after another. He’d already drawn runes on the insides of his robes and on his own skin in rune-potion but the problem with runes was that they would eventually run out of the energy you put into them and dissipate without a source. The Hogwarts wards and all the wards in the castle automatically drew on a sort of flux of natural magic in the area, the reason the school was built there in the first place, but his own had a shelf life. He didn’t trust them to hold up to dragonfire for long. Any little bit extra would help.

“Okay,” Harry muttered, making eye contact with the beast. She snapped her fangs at him. “Let’s dance.”

The first part of his plan involved drawing it out. Harry inched closer, using rocks as cover, never breaking eye contact or making much noise. The murmur of the crowd was a distant, unimportant thing.

The Horntail’s snarls got louder and more frequent the closer he got.

Harry was well within range of the chains when he finally took a deep breath and prepared for the second part. She was a nesting mother and wouldn’t leave her clutch unless directly threatened; normally a Horntail would’ve snapped up a human who got this close but she didn’t consider him especially dangerous and wasn’t about to leave her eggs.

So he had to be a threat.

 _This is the stupidest thing I have ever done_ , Harry thought, and lifted his wand, and started firing verbal _bombarda_ s at her one after the other.

The first one hit her chest. The second, her left wing. He was careful to avoid the eggs and aimed high, nailing neck, chest again, clipping her chin—one spell missed and left a smoking crater in the palisade behind her—

The Horntail roared and charged. The crowd shouted. Bagman shouted.

 _“Ceratagri!”_ Harry screamed, pointing his wand not at the dragon but at the ground just in front of it—

The Horntail tripped and floundered as it stumbled into the large patch of ground he’d just transfigured to quicksand. Harry lunged behind a boulder and tongues of fire passed around and over him. He felt his robes smoking.

The inferno died. Harry dodged out from behind the boulder and shot _ceratagri_ at the ground again and again and again, and landed four more spells before he had to duck into a crack in the stone and run along it at a dead sprint to avoid another gout of flame.

He cautiously poked his head above ground. He was off to one side now, heart pounding in his ears so loudly it drowned out nearly all other sound. The Horntail hadn’t noticed him… but it would as soon as he went for the eggs. Or as soon as it smelled him. Harry needed to find scent-blocking spells as soon as possible.

He had to keep it from shooting fire at him.

 _“Bindus kaede!”_ he whispered, aiming, concentrating fiercely on shaping the spell how he wanted—

Chains shot from his wand through the air and tangled themselves around the dragon’s head and muzzle. The Horntail snorted fire angrily from its nostrils but couldn’t get its muzzle more than an inch or two open. It was floundering in the quicksand still; Harry turned the sand back to stone as best he could with a single _commuto_ and started running. This was his best chance.

The sound of cracking stone came from behind him and he ran faster.

Harry scrambled into the nest, scooped up the heavy egg with one arm, jumped over the edge and looked around wildly—there, they’d opened another door in the enclosure now that he had the egg, he just had to reach it—

A roar sounded from behind that was definitely _not_ the crowd.

Harry spun around, heart going so fast he couldn’t even hear separate beats anymore. The Horntail had disentangled itself from the chains, and was smashing its way out of the stone trapping all four of its legs, and it looked _angry._

He bared his teeth at it and bolted.

The crackle of dragonfire gave him a split-second warning before he was engulfed in an inferno.

Harry ran blindly. The white-hot glow of the flames hurt his eyes. He stumbled and slipped and slammed his eyes closed. The heat of the fire battered against his failing fireproofing spells and his runes just like the panic flung itself against his mental shields.

The last spell protecting him failed.

For one agonizing moment, the fire had him—

And then, mercifully, it was gone.

 _“Aguamenti,”_ Harry choked out, and a spray of water put out the fire on his robes and hair. His entire body felt seared. When he looked down, his skin looked raw and reddish. Blisters rose on the backs of both hands and he could feel more on his face and neck and ankles, the areas least protected by clothing.

The Horntail roared again, but even blind he’d been running in the right direction, and the door was right there.

Harry stumbled the last few feet out of the arena.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: if anyone thinks it’s harsh for Harry to be fantasizing about crucio’ing Ronald, first consider the insult, and then consider that canon Harry fantasized about using the cruciatus on Snape in this same scene except 2 in-universe minutes later. 
> 
> A/N 2: Information on the dragons comes from the illustrated FBAWTFT, which I just got for Christmas and found absolutely amazing. If you have the resources, I HIGHLY recommend. The artwork is GORGEOUS and it’s a fantastic reference for fic.


	14. Teenage Drama

Somewhere, Bagman was shouting about Harry’s results. He paid absolutely no attention. Moody lurked in the background as Snape and Pomfrey hurried Harry into the first-aid tent.

“Excellent spellwork, Mr. Potter,” Snape said tersely.

“Dragons!” Pomfrey complained in a disgusted tone, sorting briskly through a rack of potions bottles. “Last year dementors, this year dragons, what are they going to bring into this school next, a nundu? You’re lucky you weren’t in the fire longer than a fraction of a second, Mr. Potter… these burns are superficial… You may have some permanent nerve damage on the backs of your hands and around your neck, those areas were most affected, but nothing too severe…”

She spread a cooling paste on Harry’s skin, made him drink two potions, and started incanting. Harry knocked the potions back without even paying attention to what they were. He couldn’t stop himself slumping with relief as the redness faded from his skin and the blisters popped painfully and then began to heal.

“Right, that’s you sorted,” Pomfrey said briskly. “Sit here for a minute, and then you can go get your score.”

Harry was not going to complain about having a moment to gather himself. He drew his knees up to his chest—every movement made his robes drag over his raw skin, and it _hurt._

The tent was divided into cubicles. He could make out Diggory’s silhouette in the next one over, and he could hear excited chatter from the one on the other side of that—Jules and Ronald and Seamus. Ronald was apologizing. He hoped Jules had the sense not to forgive him for that betrayal.

“Mr. Potter, do you require a calming draught?” Snape said.

“Er… wouldn’t hurt,” Harry said. It was all he could do not to break down right there, actually, but he wasn’t going to tell Snape that.

The look Snape sent him said quite clearly that Snape saw through the act, but he didn’t comment, and only passed Harry a potions bottle. Harry drank it and shuddered with relief as it went to work. He hadn’t realized how much strain his mind was under just to function until the potion artificially solved the problem.

“Can I just say how grateful I am that you told me to pursue Occlumency, sir?” he said.

Snape’s lips twitched. “Admirable progress, Mr. Potter. I am… pleased… that you did not die.” He sneered. “It would be a travesty if the Other Potter remained the only representative of your family in this generation.”

This last was spoken loudly enough for Jules and his well-wishers to hear.

“They’re not permitting you visitors,” Snape said. “Upon my recommendation. You need a quiet moment to calm your mind.”

“Thank you, sir.” Harry wouldn’t have wanted to see people right now, anyway. Hermione and Pansy might have actually tried to hug him and then there would be Justin and Neville’s badly concealed worry and Blaise and Theo and Daphne’s slightly better hidden worry and—no.

Snape nodded sharply and swept away, robes billowing.

Moody ducked into the tent not long after Snape left.

“Professor Moody,” Harry said politely. He was already feeling much more stable. Hopefully Pomfrey would release him to get his scores soon.

“Congratulations, Potter,” Moody growled, watching him with a weird combination of interest and irritation. “Nice to see you didn’t get cooked… well, not all the way, at least.”

“Cooked very rare,” Harry agreed.

Moody actually laughed. For a half a second, there was that odd dissonance again, like his expression didn’t match his facial muscles. Scar damage, probably. “Wouldn’t have pegged you as the funny one.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “All due respect, sir, you don’t know me well enough to peg me as much of anything.”

“Fair enough.” Moody crooked a gnarled finger. “Get out there, they’ll be showing your scores soon.”

Scooping up the golden egg, Harry walked gingerly out of the tent and back into the enclosure. He looked towards where the judges were sitting, on raised seats draped in gold.

“It’s out of ten,” Moody growled from behind him. Harry didn’t acknowledge him in the slightest, though his skin crawled and his fingers twitched toward his wand at having the crazy Dumbledore man at his back.

Maxime went first, raising her wand and shooting a curling ribbon into the air that formed into a seven.

Crouch went next, with a nine.

Bagman—seven.

Karkaroff lifted his wand, hesitated, and gave Harry a six. Figured; he was trying to help Viktor get the best score.

Harry imagined he and Dumbledore made eye contact in the second before the man shot off the score, even though they were too far away for that to have happened.

He gave Harry a five.

Harry clenched his fists for two seconds before he caught himself and relaxed.

The crowd was roaring happily. Harry bowed once and retreated from the enclosure. It was clear most of the school had rallied when they saw what he and Diggory and Jules were facing; even the Hufflepuffs were cheering for him…

“Harry!” Theo ducked the ropes blocking the champions’ area off from the crowd and jogged over. “Pomfrey fixed you up?”

 “Mostly,” Harry said. “Still a little tender… she said it might be a few hours for the potions and healing spells to go to work.”

Theo shook his head in disgust. “That was insane. Worse than I was expecting. Merlin… Dragons, for kids…”

“No one has ever accused Dumbledore of being a responsible headmaster,” Harry said before he realized Moody was still standing nearby.

He and Theo glared at the man in unison.

Moody grinned unpleasantly at them before he stumped back into the first-aid tent, probably in search of Jules.

“Oh—here,” Theo said.

He subtly passed both Portkeys back to Harry. The Grimmauld Place key went on first, followed by the ring, just as Harry’s other friends caught up just then. As predicted, Hermione and Pansy threw themselves at him immediately. He tolerated their hugs for a few seconds because he knew they’d been worried sick and gently pushed them off, citing his tender skin. Hermione immediately started talking a mile a minute about healing creams and hadn’t Pomfrey given him one? Harry rolled his eyes and showed it to her.

“You were brilliant,” Neville said, grinning. “Bloody brilliant…”

“Best out there, as far as I’m concerned,” Justin said.

“Where’s your House loyalty?” Blaise said, smirking.

Justin kicked him in the shin. “My House have been bloody prats for the last month, I’ll support Cedric but also my friend, you idiot.”

“How’d the others do?” Harry said.

“Diggory transfigured a rock into a dog to distract the dragon,” Theo said instantly. “It sort of worked, he got the egg, but then the dragon realized what was going on and left the dog to go after him. He barely got away—Short-Snouts’ fire can turn people or wood to ash in seconds, it’s the hottest fire produced by any breed—he came out with thirty-seven points. Delacour got forty, she put it to sleep with a spell. _One_ spell and she had it in this trance, dozing next to the eggs.”

“I’m going to look up that incantation,” Hermione said determinedly. “Or try and talk it out of her.”

“Good luck,” Daphne said. “That one’s not going to give up secrets easily.”

Hermione grinned. She still looked a bit shaky. “I’m stubborn.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Theo said, “then Viktor nailed it in the eye with the Conjunctivitis Curse—impressive bit of spellwork…”

“Except it trampled around in agony and crushed half the real eggs,” Blaise said. “They marked him down for that, he only scored thirty-three. Karkaroff gave him a ten, the man’s even more biased than Dumbledore.”

“And Jules got gored by the Vipertooth’s claw, right down the shoulder, but he still tied with Delacour,” Pansy said. “He summoned his broom.”

 _“_ That’s why he wanted the Summoning Charm all of a sudden,” Neville said. “He outflew it. Tied with Delacour for first right now.”

“Outflew a Peruvian Vipertooth?” Harry said, eyebrows raised. “That’s fairly impressive, actually.”

“The broom did catch fire,” Neville said. “He almost crashed on the way out.”

Harry sighed. “And they still gave him top marks. He was injured _and_ he damaged the broom.”

“Karkaroff’s only a _little_ more biased than Dumbledore,” Blaise said, smirking.

“Forget the score,” Hermione said firmly. “You’re only trying to survive here, Harry—it doesn’t matter that Karkaroff and Dumbledore screwed you over with low scores…”

“I’m still in third,” Harry said. “Could be worse.”

Blaise and Theo grinned evilly at each other. “Let’s go,” Theo said. “There’s _definitely_ going to be a party in the Slytherin common room tonight.”

“Gryffindor, too,” Neville sighed.

Hermione shook her head. “It’s going to be _impossible_ to read…”

“Poor Ravenclaws,” Justin said, laughing, as they started walking back up to the castle. “They’re the only House without a reason to get drunk tonight.”

 

The Slytherin party was loud, and involved a lot of enchanted fireworks and water showers. There was also a significant quantity of alcohol once the third years and below were booted out at midnight. The upper years kept the fourth and fifth years from drinking too much. Harry didn’t have any alcohol; the idea of losing control was almost as frightening to him as the dragon. Nearly everyone else had at least a little, and several of the sixth and seventh years got drunk and started making up a song with extremely unflattering lyrics about Dumbledore, Karkaroff, Jules, and Moody.

He started getting demands to open the egg at almost one in the morning. “Open it! Open it! Open it!” a shitfaced Everett Kinney chanted, waving a wine bottle enthusiastically. Flora Carrow propped him up, _giggling._

“Ready?” Harry said with a grin.

Unanimous roar of assent.

He took a breath. The next task was February twenty-fourth, and supposedly the egg contained some kind of clue as to what it would be. Harry pointed his wand and muttered a generic opening spell.

The egg was hollow and completely empty, except for a horrific screechy wailing nose.

“Shut it!” Miles bellowed, hands clamped over his ears.

Harry slammed the egg shut.

“What the fuck?” Everett said. Celesta Fawley smacked him on the shoulder without even looking at him.

“They’re not making the clue easy,” Theo said, laughing suddenly.

That set off the whole house, and they made jokes about the egg for another thirty minutes before Cassie Warrington heaved a sigh, declared to no one in particular that she should at least pretend to be the responsible one, and started chasing everyone off to bed. Some of the sixth and fifth years, including Everett, Noah, Anita, and Jordan, needed hexes to hurry them along.

Harry climbed into bed, set the egg on his bedside table, and was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

 

December brought with it sleet, hail, cold, and a general nasty mood for everyone. Harry listened to Niklas and Timur’s endless complaints about sleeping on their ship, which rocked wildly on the storm-tossed waters of the lake, and was very glad for the steady silence of the dungeons. Sure, it was cold down there, but all the Slytherins knew warming charms and Harry could basically heat his clothes from the inside out with a thought, so he wasn’t bothered in the slightest.

With the first task gone, he and the others buckled down on the notebooks, and with help from their Durmstrang allies, they finished two weeks after the first task.

Harry grinned delightedly, scribbling in his notebook, as all of them curled up in the Knights Room with quills and ink to test. Fred and George even set aside their latest project—Canary Creams—to help.

Each notebook would only open for its owner, who used a standard runic array to lock their magical signature into the enchantments on the cover. Inside, they had a thousand blank pages for normal note-taking or journaling, spelled to look and feel like only a slim volume, which was also a fairly standard practice. The really tricky part had been the section at the front of each notebook: a single page with a narrow gold border that was linked between all the notebooks, one page with a silver border and a name written on top for each person with a connected notebook, plus ten blank silver-edged pages, and finally one with a red border.

George, Fred, Pansy, Neville, and Blaise, who weren’t taking Runes or Arithmancy and had stayed mostly out of the project, were very eager to hear exactly how it worked.

“You write something on the gold page, and it shows up in everyone else’s journal,” Harry explained. “There’s a bit of glass set in the leather of the cover, look—it’ll light up when you have a message waiting. The words’ll fade once you read them. The silver pages are for direct conversation. There’s one for everyone who has a notebook connected to the others, and the ten blank ones are for other groups—just write the names of the people you want to see your message along the top, and that page will link to them in your notebook and in theirs. People can stop getting notes from one of those custom groups if they just cross off the names at the top; the page’ll go back to normal.”

“The red one’s to block anyone,” Theo said. “Write names there and they can’t send you anything.”

“I’m blocking you,” Pansy said instantly, whipping out a quill and writing _Theodore Nott_ in the red page with a flourish.

“You are a horrible person,” Theo said.

“Thank you,” Niklas said, holding up the notebook and grinning. In gratitude for their help, Harry had gotten extra notebooks and linked them with the others and given them to the three Durmstrang boys. Their messages would show up on each other’s gold pages but not those of the Hogwarts set, and they could write direct messages to anyone else with a journal. “These will be very useful at school…”

“This is the best possible way to pass notes in class,” Pansy said.

Daphne wrote in the gold page.

Her note came through a second later. The glass on the cover of everyone’s journal glowed their House color; the Durmstrang boys had picked a dark purple. Harry opened his notebook:

_DG_

_Testing Pansy’s note-passing theory_

Pansy laughed.

_PP_

_This is brilliant_

_FW_

_can we use these to piss off ron_

_HP_

_Absolutely. Just don’t tell anyone where you got them_

They spent an hour writing notes back and forth in near dead silence. Harry tested all the individual pages, created and destroyed several smaller groups on the blank silver pages, and blocked and unblocked people on the red page. Crossing off a name from the red page made the ink glow and then fade, undoing the block. He couldn’t stop smiling. This was the coolest thing he’d ever made.

“Keeping in touch this summer is going to be so easy,” Neville said. “I can’t wait—I’ll send you lot drawings from wherever Gran and I go this year—will drawings come through?”

“Any ink you put on the page will,” Justin said.

“Who else are we giving them to?” Hermione asked, flipping through the blank note-taking pages eagerly.

Harry shrugged. “We have the spells and runes now, we can just add people as we want. More silver pages will appear for every new notebook we link in, it won’t be that hard. I was thinking Luna, at least.” He paused. “Maybe Malfoy.”

“Awesome,” Pansy said. “I’m absolutely storing blackmail material in here.”

The Durmstrang boys looked alarmed. Theo laughed.

 

The sixth years backed off him a bit to let Harry focus on research. He was pretty sure the screeching noise in the egg was supposed to mean something, which meant it was either a language or a code. He couldn’t pick up any kind of pattern to it. That suggested language. Unfortunately, Hannah refused to tell him anything. “I’m not helping Cedric either,” she said before Harry could get irritated. “I’m not going to stop anyone _else_ from helping you, but I won’t do it myself.”

She was smiling, though, and she said it kindly, so he faked being wounded and sat down agreeably to work on their star charts together for a bit.

Jules, despite Harry’s hopes to the contrary, took Ronald back with open arms. He insisted Ronald had just been jealous and acting stupid, and weren’t friends supposed to forgive each other? Harry just rolled his eyes and said flatly that he wouldn’t mind keeping up an occasional study group but Ronald and Seamus weren’t invited. Jules agreed and their Monday afternoons in the library, usually joined by Hannah, Pansy, Hermione, Neville, and Justin, became a somewhat regular occurrence.

Malfoy, Hannah, and Luna were impressed by the journals. Harry gave the Ravenclaw a copy of the runes they’d created so she didn’t tear her journal apart trying to reverse engineer the spells.

The first group created on the empty silver pages included Blaise, Hannah, Malfoy, and Pansy, in which they did nothing but complain about Hagrid’s latest creatures, as far as Harry could tell from reading over Blaise and Pansy’s shoulders.

Viktor hid from his fangirls in the library or the Knights Room. The Slytherins observed delightedly that he tended to choose where to go based on where Hermione was and said nothing to the oblivious bushy-haired Gryffindor, who was as usual elbow-deep in homework for her three electives (she’d added an independent study in Transfiguration under McGonagall).

 

Harry was leaving a grueling language practice session with Babbling, Theo at his side, when both of their notebooks lit up green. Harry had added a spell that shot a very mild stinging hex at his left hand when someone sent him a message that a few of the others copied. He fished it out of his bag and opened it to the gold page.

_GW_

_didn’t you say crouch’s elf was winky_

_FW_

_the weird one from the cup the ministry idiots thought cast the mark_

_TN_

_Yes, why?_

_GW_

_we found her_

_FW_

_in the kitchens_

_GW_

_drunk as a skunk. don’t give elves butterbeer. there’s another elf who says he knows you, harry—dobby?_

_HP_

_We’re on our way_

_HG_

_I’m coming too._

_PP_

_Do not go off on some tear about elf freedom okay you’ll offend them_

_Actually, I’m coming, to keep you quiet_

_HG_

_As long as Hogwarts lives up to the customs of proper elf treatment, I won’t say a word._

_BZ_

_You are a menace._

_PP_

_I’m offended_

_BZ_

_I meant Hermione but if the hat fits…_

“This couldn’t be any weirder,” Theo said, stuffing his notebook away. “How the hell did Crouch’s elf end up here?”

“Bet no one else would hire her,” Harry said grimly.

They showed up at the kitchens at the same time as Hermione and Pansy. “How do we get in?” Pansy said.

“Have you never been here before? Tickle the pear,” Harry said, showing her.

“That is… so bizarre,” Pansy muttered.

Hermione marched through the door first.

Harry followed. He’d been in the kitchens before, so the sight of an underground room as large as the Great Hall above it, if lower-ceilinged, didn’t surprise him. House-elves bustled around as usual, cooking, cleaning, and chattering.

Five tables were arrayed in the room exactly like those in the Great Hall above, one for each House plus the staff table. Great platters stood on them, half of which had food on them and half of which were empty. Harry realized he should be up at dinner right now at the same time as his stomach growled loudly.

A female elf in a neat toga pinned with the Hogwarts crest hurried over to them.

“Hi, Curly,” Harry said.

“Harry Potter, sir, and Theo Nott! I is not seeing you for some time,” Curly said, beaming.

“Yeah, we’ve been, er, a bit busy,” Theo said, looking around for the twins.

“Can we be getting masters and misses anything?” Curly said.

Hermione looked around with a furrowed brow. “Curly, right? How many elves are bound to Hogwarts?”

“Over two hundred, miss,” Curly said proudly.

“Are you bound to the Headmaster?” Hermione said. 

Curly firmly shook her head. “We is bound to the Hogwarts wards, miss—we is sustained by Hogwarts magic.”

“And you’re—er—treated well?” Hermione said hesitantly.

“Oh yes, miss,” Curly said. “Hogwarts is very good for elves. We is keeping the dorms clean and getting to make so much food for wizards and witches and we is proud to be keeping our secrets and our silences for Hogwarts, miss.”

“That’s good,” Hermione said. She was clearly noting that none of the elves looked underfed or unhappy; all of their ears were perky and their togas clean and their steps brisk. They reminded Harry of the Potter, Longbottom, Zabini, or Parkinson elves, though he’d only seen the latter once, when he visited Pansy’s manor in mid-August.

“I think we’re missing dinner,” Harry said, watching three elves levitate a large quantity of Yorkshire pudding onto the Hufflepuff table, where it promptly disappeared, presumably reappearing in the Great Hall. “Could we…”

“Oh yes, sirs, Curly is getting on it!” Curly dashed away.

“There,” Pansy said, pointing.

Harry caught sight of two familiar ginger heads over by the massive fireplace. He, Theo, Pansy, and Hermione started through the room, being careful to stay out of the elves’ way. Most of the elves bowed or curtsied in their direction briefly as the four students passed. Hermione looked a bit pained at the sight until Pansy elbowed her firmly and reminded her it was respect and not fear driving the gestures.

“Oh good,” George said, upon spotting them. “She’s crying, we can’t get her to stop…”

“Harry Potter, sir!” Dobby looked extremely excited. “Dobby has been hoping and hoping to see the Potters, sir, and Harry Potter has come!”

“Er, yeah,” Harry said. “I bet Jules would be happy to see you if you went to visit…”

Dobby goggled at him.

“Nice one,” Fred muttered, smirking.

“What are you wearing?” Theo said, staring at Dobby’s strange outfit. He had an orange hat covered in buttons, a horseshoe-patterned tie over his bare chest, children’s football shorts, and two mismatched socks.

“Clothes, sir!” Dobby said happily. “Dobby is a free elf, sirs! Dobby has traveled the country for two years, sirs and misses, but it is difficult for a house-elf who has been dismissed to find work, very difficult indeed—”

Winky, who was slumped across the hearthstones in a filthy towel and clutching a bottle of butterbeer, howled. Hermione looked at her in alarm.

“Dobby has found it especially difficult, because Dobby wants paying now,” Dobby finished.

The elves around them all looked away as though Dobby had said something embarrassing. Curly, who was coming their way helping five other elves carry a massive platter covered in dishes of food and snacks and drinks, shot him a disappointed look.

“And then, Dobby goes to visit Winky, and finds out Winky has been freed too, sirs and misses!” Dobby said delightedly.

Winky’s screeching increased in volume.

Curly snapped her fingers and the platter of food came to a neat hover at waist height. “Let us know if yous be wanting anything else!” another elf squeaked. Theo thanked them absently while staring at Dobby with the kind of vague fascination usually reserved for dogs who act like cats or perhaps a dragon behaving like a puffskein.

“This is so weird,” Pansy hissed. “He’s not normal.”

Hermione glared at her. “If Dobby wants to get paid, Dobby can get paid,” she said archly. “Being an outlier is not necessarily wrong.”

Pansy rolled her eyes and started eating. Fred and George watched the conversation like it was a high-stakes tennis match.

Dobby told the story of coming to Hogwarts and getting work from Dumbledore, at a galleon a week and one day off per month. Hermione narrowed her eyes at this, clearly not trusting Dumbledore not to take advantage of the elf. “That’s not much…”

“Professor Dumbledore is offering Dobby ten galleons a week, and weekends off,” Dobby said with a shiver, “but Dobby beat him down, miss… Dobby likes freedom, miss, but he isn’t wanting too much, he likes work better.”

“At least he treats the _elves_ right,” Hermione muttered. “Unlike children. How about you, Winky?”

Winky very abruptly sat up and stopped screeching.

“Oh thank Merlin,” George muttered, helping himself to some treacle tart.

“Winky is a disgraced elf, miss, but Winky is not getting paid!” Winky squeaked. “Winky is not sunk so low as that! Winky is properly ashamed of being freed!”

“Er—have you been bound to the Hogwarts magic?” Harry said. Winky certainly looked weaker and thinner than any elf he’d ever seen. He knew house-elves relied on the magic of the family they were bound to to keep themselves in good health and at full strength. Dobby could probably bypass that and just draw from the latent magic of the Hogwarts grounds, like the wards did, and Winky shouldn’t _need_ to be bound to the school to be strengthened by living here, but she didn’t look like it was helping.

“No, sir! No, sir! Winky is a good elf, Winky is not accepting magic not from her master!” Winky said.

Hermione frowned. “Your master was a bad one, Winky—Crouch was supposed to respect you and treat you well for your service—he forced you into the Top Box when you were afraid of heights, he blamed you for the Mark—”

“Winky is keeping her master’s secrets, miss!”

“Winky is having trouble adjusting, sirs and misses,” Dobby said confidentially. “Winky knows she is not bound to Mr. Crouch, but Winky refuses to speak ill of him.”

“You can speak ill of the Malfoys now, though?” Hermione said.

“Dobby—Dobby could,” Dobby said doubtfully. “Dobby could tell Harry Potter that his old masters were—they—they used _bad Dark magic!”_

He stood there for a second, and then lunged for the nearest table—

Theo caught him by the tie and hauled him back. “Stop that, you’re not their elf anymore,” he said flatly.

“Dobby!” Winky said furiously. “You is ought to be ashamed of yourself, talking that way about your masters!”

“They isn’t my masters anymore!” Dobby said defiantly.

Harry rubbed his forehead to try and ward off a headache and started eating. He had a headache, and this was interesting but not particularly useful.

“Oh you is a bad elf, Dobby!” Winky moaned, her tears starting up once more. “My poor Mr. Crouch, what is he doing without Winky? He is needing me, he is needing my help! I is looking after the Crouches all my life, and my mother is doing it before me, and my grandmother is doing it before her… Oh what is they saying if they knew Winky was freed? Oh the shame, the shame!”

“Winky,” said Hermione firmly, “I’m quite sure Mr. Crouch is getting along perfectly well without you. We’ve seen him—”

“You is seeing my master?” Winky lifted her face from her skirt and goggled at Hermione breathlessly. “You is seeing him here at Hogwarts?”

“Yes,” said Hermione, “he and Mr. Bagman are judges in the Triwizard Tournament.”

Winky looked angry again. “Mr. Bagman is a bad wizard! A very bad wizard! My master isn’t liking him, oh no, not at all!”

“Bagman—bad?” George said doubtfully around a mouthful of asparagus.

“Oh yes!” Winky said, nodding furiously. “My master is telling Winky some things! But Winky is not saying—Winky is keeping her master’s secrets…”

“Winky,” said Hermione hesitantly, “if—if another wizard or witch was willing to take you as their elf, even though you’ve been dismissed… would you agree? Not—not as a Hogwarts elf, but a proper one?”

“Winky is a good elf,” Winky said firmly. “Winky is only binding to a proper witch or wizard with magic enough for an elf.”

Theo almost dropped his fork, staring first at Hermione and then at Harry.

The six of them left the kitchen with elves crowding around their ankles, supplying them with snacks for later. Harry quite happily conjured a plastic box, layered it with stasis charms, and dumped apples, carrots, meat pies, pumpkin pasties, and cream cakes into it. He did this every time he came here and stored it all in either the designated food stash in his trunk, or kept some in his bag, all of it under the best preservation and stasis charms he knew.

“I’m adopting her,” Hermione said flatly as soon as the door closed behind them.

“Fuck, we were right,” Theo said.

“Hermione, you—look, being Muggle-born makes it harder to have an elf,” Pansy said bluntly. “They tie in to the _family_ magic. When there’s only one magical person in the family, a lot of the time it doesn’t take, if the witch or wizard isn’t strong enough.”

“How do I test that, then?”

Harry sighed. “She’s not going to let this go.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Hermione said cheerfully.

Theo gave up. “Write the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures for the process,” he said. “They’ll test you and see if you can support an elf on your own, and then there’s legal paperwork, fees, the ritual…”

“How much are the fees?” Hermione said. “My parents… wouldn’t understand a house-elf, they probably won’t pay, I don’t know if I have enough…”

“Not sure.”

Fred and George grinned at the same time. “We’ll cover them, ‘Mione, if you pay us back by helping with our research.”

“Not as a test subject,” she said, “but I’ll help you look things up and design your spells, does that work?”

The twins exchanged a glance. “Deal,” they said in unison.

 

“We have to learn how to _dance?”_ Harry said. “From _Snape?”_

“And Vector,” Daphne said, smirking at the look on his face. “She’s a Slytherin too… and it’s not _we_ , Harry, some of us grew up learning this.”

“I hate my father,” Harry said gloomily. “Dancing lessons with _Snape._ Urgh.”

“McGonagall has to teach all the Gryffindors,” Pansy said gleefully. “Hermione was complaining about it during Potions.” She tapped her journal.

“Does any of us _not_ know how to dance?” Harry said. “Other than me, that is.”

They looked around. “Ginny,” Pansy said. “Probably. I’ll get Nat to teach her in case anyone asks her to the Yule Ball. Have we all got good dress robes?”

Harry grinned. His had been approved by Sirius, Roxanne Greengrass (by letter and photograph), Theo, and Pansy, so he wasn’t worried. All the boys nodded and the girls exchanged conspiratorial smirks.

“Dancing with Snape,” Harry muttered again.

Pansy kicked his ankle. “Don’t worry, Potter, I’ll come help so you don’t have to pretend to dance with your teacher.”

“Oh thank Merlin,” Harry said. “I’d never have been able to look at Vector the same way again.”

 

Even worse than the dancing lesson was the knowledge that he would have to ask someone to the dance. “It is tradition for the champions to open the Yule Ball,” Snape said in a tone that permitted no argument. “You will find a partner, Potter, and you will learn the dances, and you will represent Hogwarts and Slytherin House well.” The _or else_ didn’t even need to be verbalized.

“Yes, sir,” Harry said.

He and Pansy walked back to the dorms after the awkward dancing lesson. “I’ll help you keep practicing,” Pansy said. “You’re athletic, you’re actually not bad.”

“Great,” he muttered.

“D’you know who you’re going to ask?” she said.

Harry frowned. “Not yet… someone I trust, I think, so that narrows my options.”

“Haven’t you got a crush?” she teased.

Harry elbowed her. “I’d tell you if I did, Pans.”

“Are you sure?” she said, smirking. “Because I see how you look at Daphne sometimes…”

With a monumental effort, Harry managed not to blush.

Pansy laughed. “Oh, you should _see_ your face. Ask her, Harry, she’ll say yes. And be a gentleman about it.”

“Er,” Harry said. “Can I… practice?”

“On me?” Pansy stopped in the empty dungeon corridor. “Go for it.”

Harry arranged his features into bashful charm, took her hand, and held it in both of his. “Miss Greengrass, would you do me the great honor of accompanying me to the Yule Ball as my date?” he said.

“Oh, very good,” Pansy said, grinning. “You might even get the ice princess to blush a bit. Do it when I’m around, okay, so I can watch?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Harry said as they resumed walking. “Do you have anyone in mind?”

Pansy’s lips thinned. “My parents have been pushing a political match with the Malfoys since I was little.”

“That’s why you were shadowing him first year,” Harry said. “I figured.”

She shrugged. “I figured out pretty fast I preferred your lot’s company to his, and told Mum and Father that I didn’t think I could marry him without committing murder within four years. Father made a joke that maybe we should do it anyway, since it’d leave me the Malfoy vaults. Mum hit him.” Pansy laughed at the memory.

Harry pushed aside the bittersweet feeling that he always got when his friends reminisced about their families. “How about now?”

“He’s better,” Pansy said. “You scared the childish stupidity out of him, and Mum’s friends with Narcissa Malfoy, she said she got the feeling the Malfoy parents kind of lit into Draco this summer and told him to grow up. If he asks me, I won’t say no.”

“But do you, you know, like anyone?” Harry said. “Because I could drop some hints…”

“You’re sweet,” Pansy said, laughing. “No, not really. Pureblood marriages aren’t always love matches, anyway. Loads of them are just a formality after the heir and the spare arrive. Especially since the blood magic ban.”

“What?” Harry said. “Why?”

“I understand Muggles have been a bit backwards about this, but in the wizarding world, it’s fairly common for two witches or two wizards to marry,” Pansy said. “I think the Muggles have issues because their religions are weird. Least that’s what Mum says. Father says part of it is just that there’s fewer of us so we don’t have the option to be pissy just because someone’s gay. But you still need heirs. When blood adoption was legal, gay couples could just adopt a couple Muggle-born kids, but now they usually need to marry someone they’re not interested in and take the ‘fidelity’ bit out of the marriage contract. Discretion’s the name of the game.”

“That ban really messed a lot of things up, didn’t it?” Harry said, assimilating this new information. Petunia used to rant about homophobia in their kitchen while Vernon watched the news. He’d never understood how she cared so much that people she wouldn’t associate with in real life were ostracized for sexual preferences while beating and starving her nephew and locking him in a cupboard. That was about as much as he knew about homophobia for either Muggles or wizards. Or had known, anyway.

“The Ministry’s messed a lot of things up in general,” Pansy sighed.

Harry bumped her shoulder with his. “We can go be politicians and change things, then.”

Pansy’s smile was glittering. “I like this plan.”

 

He made sure to mention to Jules that Dobby was working at Hogwarts. Having Jules befriend the elf would keep Dobby out of Harry’s hair, and probably be good for Dobby.

 

_Hermione_

“I almost wish everyone still hated him,” she muttered.

Neville sighed. “No, you don’t.”

“He dropped the arrogant prat thing, at least,” Hermione said.

They both watched Jules and Ron and Seamus and Dean hold court at the table next to theirs. Madam Pince kept giving the group the evil eye. Ernie Macmillan, Susan Bones, Stephen Cornfoot, Lavender, and Parvati were all there, too. The girls tossed their hair and flirted and half the boys stared goggle-eyed while the others tried to flirt back. Jules, Hermione noticed, was all smiles and charming winks and warm confidence—the savior of the world turned Quidditch star turned champion of Hogwarts and defeater of the Peruvian vipertooth.

Neville pulled out his journal and Hermione followed suit.

_NL_

_Jules is in the library, I’ve counted five girls come ask him to the ball so far_

_HG_

_Pans, have you heard who he’s going with? Or anyone?_

_And Harry, I heard some girls conspiring about slipping you or Jules a love potion._

_HP_

_I’ve been asked by six. Apparently taking down a dragon is good for popularity. No Puffs, though, they can’t get over the evil snake thing_

_PP_

_Not sure yet who Jules is going to ask. I’ve heard rumors about Brown, Bones, both Patil twins—individually and together—that Ravenclaw Cho Chang, half the Gryffindor fifth and sixth years, a couple Hufflepuffs, and one of the Ravenclaw boys from fifth year was overheard yesterday wondering if Jules was interested in men._

_TN_

_I don’t even want to know how you know all that_

_PP_

_You really don’t_

_HG_

_Harry, I hope you’ve been polite about saying no._

_HP_

_What makes you so sure I haven’t said yes?_

_HG_

_ Who?? _

_HP_

_No one_

_HG_

_You are terrible_

_HP_

_You’ve known that for years._

_TN_

_He’s perfectly polite, he’s got this great line about “I’m afraid I already have someone in mind, but it’s very kind of you to ask”, all gentlemanly and charming, and they blush and walk away smiling._

_BZ_

_Told you Matteo’d whip you into shape_

_JF_

_I asked Hannah this morning. We’re just going as friends though_

_PP_

_Ooooh excellent!_

_JF_

_ JUST FRIENDS _ _, Pansy!_

_PP_

_I sense denial…_

_HG_

_Harry, wait, do you have someone in mind or are you just saying that?_

_HP_

_You’ll find out_

 “He’s so annoying,” Hermione complained.

“You shouldn’t be surprised,” Neville said. “All the Slytherins like playing mind games.”

“Justin and Hannah,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “I see it… ugh, I wish people weren’t so hung up on this.”

“D’you think Harry’s going to ask you?” Neville said hesitantly.

Hermione shuddered. “I really hope not. I don’t think of him like that. I mean, I’d go as his friend, but…”

“I think… I think I might ask Zoey,” Neville said hesitantly. “Hughes.”

“She’s nice,” Hermione said absently.

“Mhm.”

“He’s so hot,” Parvati sighed from the other table.

Hermione glanced up and saw Viktor slouching into the library. He cast a quick look their direction, waved, and then hesitated before heading for the stacks.

“He waved at us!” Lavender squealed.

 _Idiots._ Not that Hermione cared whether they thought Viktor was waving at them; _she_ knew he wasn’t.

She did have to agree he was… attractive, in the sense that he could be called striking, interesting, arresting, but never handsome. She liked how broad his shoulders were. And how confident he was. Not because people were staring at him or worshipping the ground he walked on. If anything, his confidence seemed in spite of all that. In her opinion, Viktor Krum was altogether better at being famous than Jules Potter. He deserved it more, too. He’d actually done something he remembered for his fame. And he was smart, if quiet and withdrawn, when they all hung out in the Knights Room.

Hermione tuned out Parvati and Lavender’s giggling and looked over her Transfiguration essay again. They had to discuss the modifications made to transfiguration spells when doing Cross-Species Switches, and she had an extra foot already but there was a footnote in the textbook about complications that arose due to vertebrate to invertebrate switches and she’d gone and looked it up in two other books, and they were fascinating, and she thought she should add another six inches or so on that subject, but she really should do a bit more research first.

“I’ll be right back, Neville, I need to go find a book,” Hermione said.

Neville blushed. “I, er, told Zoey I’d meet her in the common leisure hall, we’re having a—not a date per se, but just hanging out for a bit…”

“Have fun,” Hermione said, shooting him a quick smile.

Thoughts of Neville and Zoey and dances and dates disappeared as soon as he was gone. Hermione walked down the shelves of the Transfiguration section. _B, C, D, Derrick, Destrier… where’s Dexter?_

“Herm-own-inny?”

She jumped and spun. “Oh! Viktor, you scared me.”

The Bulgarian smiled hesitantly at her. “I did not mean to.”

“It’s okay, I usually get sidetracked by books,” she said, going back to the shelves. “Aha!”

“Vat book are you searching for?” he said.

 _“Tricky Transfigurations_ ,” Hermione said, holding it out. “We have an essay on cross-species switches. I’m doing a bit of extra research.”

“I have heard that Ravenclaw is the house of intelligence,” Viktor said, handing the book back. “Do you know you vere Sorted correctly?”

Hermione laughed. “People ask me all the time. Yes, I’m quite sure.” A tiny, giddy part of her brain was suddenly shrieking that he was _close_ and he was _flirting_ with her. The sensible part of her told the giddy part firmly to sit down and shut up because that was ridiculous. She was bushy-haired bucktoothed (well, not that, not anymore) Granger, the know-it-all Muggle-born, and boys didn’t flirt with her.

“Vat is the difference, then?”

“Oh, it’s fascinating,” Hermione said eagerly. The Sorting had always interested her. “It’s based on what you value most, as near as I can tell. Books and cleverness… well, that’s what I’m _good_ at, and I love learning.” She stroked the book in her arms and looked dreamily around the library; someday she wanted to own a library like this one, or the one at Grimmauld Place, full of books she’d read and books she hadn’t, full of knowledge uncovered and knowledge yet to be obtained. “But I think principles and bravery and doing the right thing matter more, in the end. So—Gryffindor.”

“It is a clever system,” Viktor said.

Hermione examined him. It was rare for her to find a person she actively wanted to pay attention to, instead of people she had to remind herself to pay attention to (sometimes she forgot and it was Pansy or Daphne doing the reminding) or it would hurt her socially. Viktor, though. Viktor interested her. “What House would you be in?” she said.

He smiled again. He had nice teeth. Growing up the daughter of two dentists had ingrained an appreciation for white teeth and good smiles in her, and Viktor hit both of those benchmarks.

_Am I sure he’s not flirting?_

_What if he is? Merlin, do I_ want _him to flirt with me?_

Hermione ruthlessly quashed the sudden nervous feeling in her stomach.

“Vat do you think?” he said.

“Eh… Gryffindor,” she said. “Harry told me about you warning him about the dragons. That’s a Gryffindor or a Hufflepuff, but Hufflepuffs are… well, you seem a little too fond of success and glory and winning, frankly.”

She thought for one second that maybe she shouldn’t have been that blunt—people didn’t always like Hermione’s blunt analyses of them—but Viktor’s smile actually got wider. “Harry and Blaise think so, too,” he said.

“They’re smart,” Hermione said primly. “That’s why I like them.”

“Vat vould a Slytherin do?” he said. “About the dragons.”

“Slytherins are as loyal as Hufflepuffs, just… more selective,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “Harry probably would’ve told you if he found out first. He likes you and he’s loyal to his people.”

“But if he did not like me?” Viktor said.

She snorted. “He might’ve told you it was unicorns.”

Viktor laughed again. His laugh was not, she decided, as nice as his smile. A bit barking and a bit grating. But it was genuine and that was more important than sounding pleasant to the ear.

“Herm-own-inny, vould you be villing to go to the Yule Ball vith me?” Viktor said suddenly. “As my date.”

Hermione was so startled she almost dropped her book. “What?”

He shuffled his feet. “Vould you—”

“No, I heard, you just—” Her brain reeled, trying to process this. It didn’t make _sense_. She was younger and she wasn’t especially pretty and— “Aren’t there girls from Durmstrang you’re interested in?”

“They care about me being famous,” Viktor said.

“Oh.” That, she supposed, _did_ make sense. He liked winning Quidditch matches and Triwizard Tournaments and the chess games he sometimes played with Harry or Theo or Niklas or Draco, but he didn’t like the girls fawning all over him. “In that case, yes, I’d love to be your date,” she said, smiling widely.

An evening with a boy who could keep up with her, and liked listening to her, and who’d never been anything but courteous… it was a lovely change from the brash, immature prats in her year in Gryffindor, or Blaise flirting with everyone, or Theo’s caustic arguments, or Harry’s quiet viciousness. She loved all her friends (if not most of the Gryffindor boys) but the thought of going to the Yule Ball with any of them… just no.

“Oh good,” Viktor said. “I vas afraid someone had already asked you.”

Hermione snorted. “Hardly. The boys are going for the pretty girls first.”

“But you are pretty,” he said, confused.

“I’m not,” she said. “I’m not fishing for compliments here, it’s a fact.”

He shrugged. “You are pretty to me, then. These other boys are fools.”

“Can’t argue with you on that one,” Hermione said, wrinkling her nose as Ronald’s raucous voice reached them.

Viktor read her mind. “Shall ve go to the Knights Room?” he said. “Ve studied svitching spells two years ago but I am interested how Hogvarts teaches them.”

“Sounds good.” That would be a fantastic way to refine her ideas; bouncing them off another person helped and Viktor didn’t bring stress. Discussing it with Theo meant he’d play devil’s advocate and then take off down a tangent that would distract the both of them for hours until Blaise or Daphne or Neville reminded them that they had to actually finish their homework at some point. “I’ll meet you there, okay? I just need to check out a couple books.” She paused. “And, do you mind if we keep this a secret? I’d like to surprise my friends.”

“Niklas and Timur vill keep it secret,” Viktor assured her, grinning. “Secrets are funny.”

“Ronald’s face is going to be priceless,” she sighed. “See you there.”

Viktor lifted her hand, kissed her knuckles ever so lightly and set her face burning in the process, and then left, his steps lighter than Hermione had ever seen him.

She pulled out her notebook, opened it to a blank silver page, and wrote across the top:

_Daphne Greengrass, Pansy Parkinson, Hannah Abbott, Luna Lovegood_

_HG_

_I’ve just been asked to the ball_

The journal lit up while she was checking out her books; Hermione stuffed them into her bag and hurried over to an empty table.

_DG_

_Who????_

_PP_

_Tell us_

_LL_

_Have you asked him what he thinks of wives in the attic yet? It’s an important first step in determining compatibility_

Hermione laughed out loud.

_PP_

_Wives in the attic?_

_HG_

_It’s a reference to a Muggle fiction novel, don’t worry about it. No, Luna, I haven’t, but it’s nothing official yet._

_HA_

_Names, Hermione._

_HG_

_You have to promise to keep it a secret_

_I want to see the looks on the boys’ faces_

_PP_

_An excellent cause and one I wholeheartedly support._

_DG_

_I’m in_

_HA_

_Of course_

_LL_

_I’m far from a Mondego_

_DG_

_…what_

_HG_

_Good one, Luna. Muggle literature again—a man who betrayed his friend, basically._

_Viktor_

_PP_

_WHAT_

_DG_

_WHAT_

_HA_

_Hermione! Merlin that’s going to be amazing!_

_PP_

_I am IMPRESSED, Granger_

_DG_

_I can’t wait to see Weasley’s face_

_HG_

_ Me neither _ _. Don’t tell the boys_

_PP_

_Never_

_HG_

_I’m going to go study with him, the Boy Who Lived and his entourage are taking up the library_

_DG_

_We’ll keep everyone out of the Knights Room_

_HG_

_No need_

_PP_

_Don’t complain. It’s happening._

_HG_

_Fine_

_LL_

_He seems nice. No Wrackspurts. You will have fun_

_HG_

_Thanks, Luna_

Hermione packed up her things, wondering idly when they’d all just accepted Luna’s Wrackspurt metaphor.

 

_Harry_

He caught Daphne after breakfast the last day before the Yule Ball.

“Daphne,” he said.

She turned and raised one eyebrow. “Yes?”

Harry arranged his face the way he’d practiced with Pansy. “Daphne, would you do me the honor of coming as my date to the Yule Ball?”

He fully expected her to tell him to drop the act, or laugh at him…

But Daphne actually _blushed_ , ever so slightly, and smiled slightly less coldly than she usually did. “I’d be delighted to, Harry.”

“Oh good,” he said, letting his relief show. “You have no _idea_ how nerve-wracking that was…”

She held out her hand with a smirk. There was the Daphne he knew. “Not as nerve-wracking as waiting for you to ask me.”

“You knew?” They started walking together, and people noticed that they were holding hands, and Harry kept his chin up and his face blank but inside he had actual _butterflies_.

He hated hormones.

Daphne just gave him a withering look.

 

_FW_

_Harry can we borrow alekta_

_HP_

_Sure, who are you writing?_

_GW_

_Bagman_

_HP_

_Ah._

First term ended with a test on antidotes in Potions and Harry threw himself into studying for the second task. Language after language yielded nothing until Harry started to wonder if he’d been wrong and it really _was_ a code.

Four days into the holidays, Malfoy asked Hermione to the Yule Ball. Harry couldn’t tell who in the Knights Room was most surprised: Hermione, of any of the watching students. She blushed as she admitted she already had a date.

“I’m going with Draco,” Pansy told Harry the next day.

He looked up from a text on rural dialects of Gobbledygook. “His second choice?”

“Not as… anything romantic,” Pansy said with a shrug. “Just two people whose families are friends. He’d prefer Hermione for some reason—I can’t see that ending in anything but an argument about something trivial, can you? —and I’m not especially interested in him, which I made clear. It’s casual.”

“If you’re fine with it,” Harry said.

“He’ll be perfectly courteous and we will make a delightful couple on the dance floor and charm all the older students into telling their parents the ties between the Malfoys and the Parkinsons remain strong and I’ll be able to leverage the link between him and me in all sorts of useful ways,” Pansy said, “and he gets a beautiful date for the evening.” She fluffed her hair in a mocking but spot-on imitation of Lavender Brown. “It’s a win-win.”

 

Pansy seemed to collect all the gossip as soon as it happened and kept them all abreast. Blaise smirked when he told the rest he’d convinced the beautiful fifth year Ravenclaw, Iris Viridian, dueling club regular, to go with him. Theo asked Evalyn Travers since they were family friends. Bets were placed and money changed hands in the Slytherin common room almost by the hour over who was asking whom. Neville cautiously dated Zoey Hughes, to the Slytherins’ delight, and Harry and Daphne held hands in the halls and sat together to study all the time, and he couldn’t help admiring her legs and her arms toned from dueling and the confident sway of her hips when she walked.

Jules asked Parvati Patil to go with him, dramatically, in the middle of dinner one night, with a large bouquet of flowers, which was the talk of the school for several days. Pansy gleefully announced that Ronald Weasley and Seamus Finnegan were still dateless, though Dean Thomas had Gryffindor third year Rose Zeller going with him. Cassie Warrington lost a bet and committed herself to being Bletchley’s date with a heavy sigh in the common room two weeks before the ball.

Half the time Harry laughed at the gossip and the other half he had to throttle the urge to curse all the stupid lovestruck teenagers around him. His stomach did funny things when he looked at Daphne or when she smiled at him or when he watched her peel Blaise apart in a practice duel, but he didn’t just… completely lose his higher mental functions around her.

It was ridiculous.

Rumors about Jules’ unrequited crush on Cho Chang were unsubstantiated but Pansy insisted he’d only been beaten to asking her to the ball by Diggory. Harry enjoyed the idea of anyone having beaten Jules to anything he wanted.

The brothers continued talking, but never about anything serious, and they rarely hung out around each other’s friends.

 

_Neville_

Watching Jules and Ron and Seamus made Neville more relieved every passing day that he already had a date. Zoey was sweet and pretty and fun to talk to and he didn’t have to deal with any of this stress and moaning about who they were going to ask.

Jules flaunted his relationship with the burgeoning beauty Parvati Patil in what Neville thought was a rather tasteless display. “She’s using him,” Hermione said flatly one evening in the Gryffindor common room. “I know for a fact she thinks he’s annoying, but what girl wouldn’t want to be on Jules Potter’s arm even without this Tournament?”

“Do you care?” Neville said.

Hermione actually lifted her head from her book and watched Parvati and Jules flirt for a few seconds. “No,” she said. “He’s using her, too. Pretty. Clever. Better liked than Lavender. More sensible, too, not that that would make a difference to our lovely savior.”

“Are you sure you won’t tell me—”

“Nope,” Hermione said with a small smile that reminded Neville uncomfortably of Pansy.

He sighed. “Fine. I’m going to go find Zoey. The Hufflepuffs are having some kind of soup-making fest today and she said she’d give me some.”

“Mmm,” Hermione said.

On his way out of the common room, Neville had to stop as Seamus and Dean dragged Ron in, ashen-faced and shaking.

“What happened?” Neville said uncertainly.

Seamus glared at him; they hadn’t been on good terms since the thing outside Potions. Neville had been cold towards him since then, too, in truth. He knew full well it was a joint effort by Harry, Malfoy, Daphne, Theo, and Viktor to get payback with the spiders and the hospital stay and all the chaos in the Great Hall. He didn’t necessarily _agree_ with what they’d done, and he knew why they hadn’t brought him into it, and he knew they knew he knew who’d done it, and none of them needed to bring it up. But even if he didn’t fully support the revenge he wasn’t about to confirm it to Seamus. Seamus, however, thought he’d been _in_ on it.

“Why did I do it?” Ron said wildly. “I dunno what made me do it!”

“Do what?” Jules asked, hurrying over; he looked very concerned. Parvati followed him and Lavender followed Parvati and Neville shot a pleading glance Hermione’s direction and she sighed gustily before packing up her books and coming to back him up.

“He—er—just asked Fleur Delacour to the dance,” Seamus said, obviously trying not to laugh.

“You _what?”_ Jules said.

Neville choked. That couldn’t have gone well.

“I don’t know what made me do it!” Ron gasped again. “What was I playing at? There were people—all around—I’ve gone mad—everyone watching! I was just walking past or in the entrance hall—she was standing there talking to Diggory—and it sort of came over me—and I asked her!”

He put his face in his hands. Hermione looked sort of helplessly irritated; everyone else was choking back laughter.

“She looked at me like I was a sea slug or something. Didn’t even answer. And then—I dunno—I just sorta came to my senses and ran for it.”

“She’s part veela,” Jules said. “Her grandmother was one. Not your fault, I bet she was turning on the charm for Cedric and you got a blast of it. Waste of her time, he’s going with Cho.”

“This is mad,” Ronald complained. “Seamus and me are the only ones without dates…”

“Er, just you, actually,” Seamus said. “I’m going with Lavender.”

“Bloody hell,” Ron said.

Jules looked sympathetic even though he was still grinning. “You’ll work it out, mate…”

“Oi, Hermione, you’re a girl!” Ron said very suddenly. 

Neville was torn between backing away slowly and staying here to watch Hermione rip Ron a new one.

“Oh, well spotted, Ronald,” Hermione said acidly.

“Well—you can come with me!”

 _Shut up_ , Neville mouthed, but only Dean and Parvati saw it, and both of them looked at him funny.

“No, I can’t,” Hermione snapped.

Ron rolled his eyes. “Sure you can, I need a date and it’s going to look really stupid if I go alone…”

“I can’t,” Hermione said, “because I’m already going with someone else.”

Twin spots of color were burning on her cheeks. Neville had seen those spots before a few times; once she’d laid into Theo for cheating off Daphne’s essay (her lecture had done nothing but make him more careful about not letting her catch him cheating, which Neville pretended not to know about) and another time she’d followed it up with a tirade about censorship of the press and available books that lasted twenty minutes.

“No, you’re not!” Ron said, now looking angry. “You’re just saying that to get out of going with me!”

“Ron…” Parvati said.

“It’d be her right, you know,” Neville said, “after how much of a prat you’ve been this year—you’ve—you treat her horribly so of course she wouldn’t want to go with you!”

Ron looked astonished. Neville channeled Theo and lifted his chin and glared at them.

“Come off it…” Seamus said awkwardly. “I mean… Hermione, who would’ve asked?”

Hermione’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Just because it’s taken you lot three years to notice doesn’t mean no one _else_ has, as you so crudely put it, caught on that _I’m a girl!”_

Ron stared at her for a second while everyone else held their breaths. Neville prayed to Morgana that Ron took the hint.

“Okay, okay, we know you’re a girl,” Ron said suddenly, grinning again. “That do? Will you come now?”

“I’ve told you!” Hermione said furiously. “I’m going with someone else!”

“No you’re n—”

 _“Avis oppugno!”_ Hermione hissed, and a flock of canaries shot out of the end of her wand and attacked Ron.

He yelled in pain and staggered backwards as the little birds attacked him. “Gerroff!” Ron bellowed, swatting wildly—Neville actually knew the counter, but as far as he was concerned Ron deserved it, so he kept his wand away—Ron turned and ran for the dorms.

Seamus followed with an ugly glare over his shoulder at Hermione.

“Er,” Jules said.

“Who are you going with?” Lavender said brightly.

Hermione blushed. “It’s a surprise.” She stalked away.

Neville sighed and decided he’d better follow to make sure she was okay. As he walked away from the group, he heard Jules asking if Parvati or Lavender knew anyone who could go with Ron.

_Poor girl._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’m not one for jumping at imaginary shadows of sexism in literature, but it does… irritate me… that the only girl in the Tournament is the least successful. I’m going to, er, tweak that a little in the results here. I mean, she put a dragon to sleep with one spell in canon. On top of that, as a girl myself, dealing with other girls’ petty jealousy and rumor-mongering is hard. Beauxbatons is characterized as a viciously cutthroat school focused on appearances and connections and rumors, where trust is hard to come by. In my head it’s a little bit like some elite American all-girls private schools where people resort to stealing others’ work in order to get ahead. Fleur wouldn’t be on the top of that particular pile without using all her available weapons, including her appearance, and developing a steel spine, really good acting, and a rather Slytherin mindset of calculating angles and motives and double and triple meanings in conversation. I’m not planning to go too far off the beaten track on the other champions’ tactics or results but I also want to give Fleur more development than she got in canon.


	15. The Yule Ball

_Harry_

The week leading up to Yule was the craziest holiday period he could remember. Harry, Theo, Daphne, Blaise, Niklas, and Timur took it in turns—the Durmstrang boys hiding under borrowed Ravenclaw robes to stay unnoticed—to follow Ron, Seamus, Dean, and Jules through the halls and hex them at random intervals. This went on for two days after the ‘incident’ in Gryffindor Tower until Hermione told them to stop. “Their complaining’s driving me up the wall, they never talk about anything else in the Tower and the library’s full,” she said.

Harry grinned. “I’ve no idea what you mean.”

“Sure you don’t,” she said. “Stop. Or hex them silent.”

“We can arrange that,” Theo said.

The four boys, plus Ernie Macmillan and Stephen Cornfoot (Daphne and Blaise added them to the list for being irritating) spent a day utterly unable to talk.

Harry made no progress on the egg.

 

Harry woke up on Christmas with and jumped out of bed. _“Eriss! Wake up, lazy scales, it’s the holidays, at least say hi to me!”_

 _“Hi,”_ she said grumpily, and burrowed back into the cotton-lined cavity Harry had carved for her in the stone behind his headboard. He rolled his eyes and retraced the runes by the entrance of her little nest that kept it warm, like he did every morning, and let her go back to her sleep.

Theo rolled over and threw a pillow at him. “Harry, it’s like… seven in the morning.”

“Oops,” Harry said. He laid a quick rune-anchored trip jinx on the floor next to Theo’s bed and left, ready to wait in the common room as usual until his friends showed up so they could all open presents together.

It was a bit different this year, with the entire House staying on for the holidays. Harry claimed a bunch of seats immediately and started levitating piles of presents over. Blaise, Pansy, Theo, Daphne…

He hesitated when he came across the stack with cards saying _Draco Malfoy._

Harry got out his journal and made a page for him and his Slytherin friends.

_HP_

_Do we have Malfoy sit with us_

The first response came in just a few minutes.

_DG_

_Vote yes_

_Same for Pansy she’s putting on makeup_

_TN_

_Yes, also why the fuck is she putting on makeup it’s Yule morning no one cares if she looks like a hobo_

_BZ_

_Appearances matter, Theodore, don’t think I’m going out there without hair gel_

_TN_

_You’re as bad as Malfoy_

_BZ_

_I take offense to that_

_TN_

_Good you were supposed to_

_HP_

_Just hurry up guys_

He crossed out the group and waved his wand, silently levitating Malfoy’s pile of gifts over to their circle.

Bulstrode, Crabbe, and Goyle came out of the dorms soon after, messy-haired and wearing pajamas. They didn’t even seem to notice Malfoy wasn’t there and started tearing into their gifts.

Harry waved to the third years as they sleepily trickled out, grinned at Theo and Daphne, who were the next to come out, and nodded to the upper years he was close to. He’d sent thank-you gifts of scarves, hats, or jumpers of quality cashmere to all the sixth years who’d been helping him plus Warrington and Bletchley.

He got clothes from Daphne, as usual, books from Theo, Daphne, Hermione, Neville, and Pansy, imported chocolates from Malfoy (which was good because Harry had sent him gourmet sweets as well), supple hand-tooled black dragonhide gloves from Blaise stamped with a subtle scale pattern, a book on the weirdest Quidditch plays throughout history from Ginny, a supply of the twins’ latest products, an ever-filling fountain pen from Justin, sweets from his Ravenclaw friends and everyone from dueling club, a strip of grass woven into runes Harry couldn’t read from Luna, and a Wizarding Wireless Radio and a crate full of twenty years of Muggle and wizarding music packed into the sound crystals wizards used in place of tapes from Sirius. Jules, surprisingly, got him an ink bottle that would change the ink inside to whatever color Harry preferred. James, unsurprisingly, got him nothing.

Harry vanished the last of his wrapping paper. There was nothing for him from the upper years in Slytherin, but he wasn’t surprised; his Yule gifts for them were more expressions of gratitude for their help than extensions of true friendship, and he hadn’t expected any of them to get him anything in return.

“Why are you smirking like you killed someone’s pet?” Theo asked.

“Someone may have arranged for some of Fred and George’s latest sweets to find their way to my Muggle relatives’ home,” Harry said easily. “Where my fat greedy pig of a cousin is sure to steal them and eat them.” He arranged his face into a parody of concern. “Hopefully he doesn’t go for the Ton-Tongue Toffees.”

“Oh dear,” Daphne drawled. “How tragic that would be.”

“How long do they last?” Pansy said. “An hour?”

Harry smiled. “Well… the latest strain does… but I believe he received a prototype recipe with a longer shelf life… maybe even a week…”

“I’m never taking food from those terrors again,” Malfoy muttered while everyone else howled with laughter.

He noticed that no one in Slytherin got a Weasley sweater, including Ginny, who stared at a box of mince pies and a beige scarf for a few long seconds before stuffing it all behind the couch.

 

Veronica Butler cornered Harry a few hours later. The entire House was still mostly packed into the dorms enjoying their gifts; Harry had been messing around with the new radio for a while playing Muggle music for his friends, who decided they quite like it.

“Potter,” she said.

He looked up and grinned. “Miss Butler. Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas,” she repeated, and scuffed a foot back and forth. Harry glanced at the offending foot and she snapped it back into line immediately. “I just wanted to say… thank you. For—loaning me those books back in September, and… your advice. It helped.” She grinned. “I’m the best in Flitwick’s class from my year now. Near the top in the others.”

 “Muggle-born?” Theo said, eyeing her.

Butler nodded, expression placid and unconcerned.

“Good job,” Daphne said. “That’s quite a mask for your age.”

Harry grinned. “They say the Hat doesn’t make mistakes; it clearly hasn’t begun with you.”

Butler thrust out a hand with a small and not especially well wrapped gift. “Astoria talked me through gift practices,” she said. “I hope I haven’t overstepped.”

Harry pulled the paper off and opened the narrow cardboard box. A dark brown luxury quill rested inside.

“Much appreciated,” he said. “No overstep at all. Thank you, Miss Butler.”

“Thank _you_ ,” the girl said, and disappeared back into the whirl of Ever-Bashing Boomerangs and joke sweets that made up the first years’ corner.

“I think you have a fan,” Pansy said, straight-faced.

Harry threw the crumpled wrapping paper and hit her in the head with it.

 

The girls all disappeared to get ready together. Daphne and Pansy lugged a garment bag and then a rattling duffel bag out of their dorms and left with a cheery wave; they were meeting Hermione and Hannah to get ready in a little-used girls’ restroom near Gryffindor Tower so they could all work together. Harry resigned himself to two hours of wizards’ chess with Malfoy since all he really had to do was apply a few hair charms and change into dress robes.

Also, he should probably brush his teeth.

“Ready for this?” Harry said, looking over his navy blue silver-accented dress robes one more time.

Theo twitched his bottle green black-trimmed robes to settle them over his shoulders. “As I’ll ever be.”

“You’re both ridiculous,” Blaise said. Though he looked mature and sophisticated in wine red robes trimmed in silver, Harry detected some distinct nervousness hiding under there.

“Iris will swoon when she sees you,” he said solemnly.

Blaise shoved him. “Prat.”

“Vain peacock,” Theo retorted.

“You’re confusing me with someone else,” Blaise said, nodding at Malfoy, who was just coming out of the bathroom. They’d been waiting for the blond for thirty minutes now.

“What?” he said defensively to their stares. “I had to sort out my hair.”

Harry eyed it. “Sure you shouldn’t have gone with the girls?”

“I hate you, Potter.”

“The feeling’s mutual.”

The four of them walked up together. Goyle and Bulstrode were going together and Crabbe had some Hufflepuff third year on his arm who seemed happy to chatter away while he stared at her in mute awe.

“Who knew Crabbe could be _charming_ ,” Blaise said, as their rather thickheaded House mate tucked a flower behind his date’s ear with a bow that made the Hufflepuff blush and giggle.

Malfoy made a face. “I spent _two hours_ convincing him to do that and then making him learn how to do it properly. He shredded the first flower I conjured for practice.”

“Who was he practicing on?” Theo said hesitantly, like he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“Goyle,” Malfoy said. “You think I’d let him put a flower on _my_ head _?”_

“The thought had crossed my mind,” Theo said, sounding a bit choked.

Malfoy hissed through his teeth. “Why do I even bother with you lot…”

“We can string together coherent sentences of more than ten words?” Harry suggested.

“Oh. Yeah, that’s it.”

The entrance hall was full of people edging through the crowd, trying to find partners from different Houses. Harry waved to Neville and Zoey, Justin and Hannah—that meant Daphne and Pansy and Hermione were around here _somewhere_ …

“Aha,” Blaise said. “See you later, losers.”

They watched him deftly maneuver through the crowd and bow over Iris’ hand. The pretty golden-blonde Ravenclaw smiled when Blaise bowed over her hand and allowed him to lead her over towards the doors. “Did he really just call us losers?” Theo said.

“Yep,” Harry said.

“Theo?”

Theo grinned at Evalyn. “You look lovely.”

“Don’t flirt with me,” Evalyn said flatly. “We’re not here for romance.”

“I’m wounded.” Theo was not wounded.

“Keep up the idiocy and I’ll make the metaphorical wound literal.”

“Introducing her to Ginny may have been the stupidest thing that Hat’s ever done,” Theo said. “Shall we go get in line, milady?”

“I’m not _your_ lady!”

Malfoy and Harry left Theo and Evalyn behind. “Pity whoever crosses that one,” Malfoy commented.

Harry thought back to a few incidents he’d heard only rumors of, incidents involving insects and rotten milk and wicked hexes and people who’d been unkind to Evalyn for her Death Eater family members or Ginny for being a “blood traitor” or Finn for his crooked teeth. “You have no idea.”

“There. Damn,” Malfoy added.

Harry’s heart actually stumbled when he caught sight of Daphne. She wore a sheer silvery-white slip over some kind of fitted white dress that subtly caught the light with every step. It set off her icy blond hair and pale skin and glacier-blue eyes perfectly, as did the small, tasteful sapphires gleaming in her ears and around her throat. In her plain white two-inch heels, she was exactly Harry’s height.

“You look amazing,” Harry said fervently, bowing over her hand and allowing himself a rare moment of unguarded sincerity.

Daphne smiled. “Good, Mum was right about your color scheme…”

Harry slipped a slender silver cuff bracelet, set with one opal that flashed between white, pink, silver, and bright blue as it moved, onto her wrist. It was a customary gift for the first time a couple appeared at some kind of formal society event together. Daphne nodded her approval before leaning in to pin the high collar of his robes together with a new pin engraved with a blue-and-white snake design. He got a whiff of her perfume, something like roses but not as sickly sweet, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“Champions over here, please!” McGonagall’s voice rang over the chaos in the entrance hall. Harry fixed his eyes on her pointed hat and he and Daphne threw elbows and stinging hexes until they got through the milling students.

Harry’s jaw _almost_ dropped when he came face-to-face with Viktor and Hermione.

“Hello, Hadrian,” Viktor said with a slightly less sullen expression than usual.

“Well, damn,” Harry said, grinning at them both. “You’re a lucky man, Viktor. Hermione, no _wonder_ you were keeping your date secret. You look wonderful.”

Daphne nodded. “She should, Pansy spent an hour doing her hair.”

“It vould have been fine how you usually vear it,” Viktor quickly assured Hermione. “I like the… volume…”

“Good,” Hermione said, “because I’m not doing this every day. Although it does look quite nice.”

Between the updo and the floaty periwinkle blue robes (Harry recognized the Greengrasses’ influence again there) and the new smile and her confidence, Hermione looked—not different, not like another person, but like herself ready to take on the world. Viktor couldn’t seem to look away from her for more than a few seconds and Hermione was completely oblivious to his fixation.

“That’s going to be interesting,” Daphne said softly as she and Harry slipped into line behind their friends.

“It already is,” he said with a smirk, and then, on impulse, lifted Daphne’s hand and brushed his lips over her knuckles. She blushed and his heart beat faster. Okay, that was a good move, he’d be remembering that one.

It was always useful to know how to charm people in this way. He’d probably need it in the future. Harry had already observed that people were more likely to trust and want to please those they were attracted to. It was illogical and stupid but then again, so were most people, and now that they were getting older it was just one more tool.

Plus, well, it wasn’t disagreeable to have a beautiful witch he was good friends with standing next to him. The feel of her skin lingered on his lips for several seconds after they lowered their linked hands to their sides again.

To distract himself, he turned his attention to the other champions and their dates. Delacour swept past in a blood-red sheath dress that left her silver hair practically glowing; Ravenclaw Quidditch captain Roger Davies looked so stunned by his good luck in having her as a date that he seemed unable to string more than a few words together at once. Diggory was the picture of a wholesome champion with his square-jawed classical looks and a radiant Cho Chang in frilly silvery-gray robes walking next to him.

Jules was the last to arrive, perfectly attired in burgundy robes trimmed in gold with Parvati Patil on his arm. She smiled around at the rest of them and adjusted the beautiful gold bangles on her wrist and tugged at the lines of her shockingly pink dress that had been subtly reworked in a nod to what Daphne hissed was traditional Indian witches’ styles.

Or, at least, Parvati smiled until she saw Hermione, at which point she stopped and began staring at Hermione with extremely unflattering shock.

“Hello, Parvati,” Hermione said.

Daphne grinned unpleasantly at Parvati. “So good to see you, Patil, you look… striking.”

Viktor looked at Harry, vaguely alarmed.

“Thank you,” Parvati said, still gaping in Hermione’s direction.

Daphne’s smile got even less pleasant.

The five champions and their dates stood to the side and waited as their classmates streamed into the Great Hall. Blaise shot Harry a wink and Hermione and Daphne smiles on his way by. Theo didn’t even notice them, too busy laughing at something Ginny said as he walked in with Evalyn on his arm and Ginny and Noah Bole next to him.

“Ooooh, Susan Bones has a _gorgeous_ dress, wonder where she got it,” Daphne murmured. “Spinnet looks good too… Merlin, Libby Borage looks like she’s wearing a horse blanket, where did she even _find_ that horror?”

“I hope she trips on it,” Harry agreed. Neither of them was overly fond of Borage; she was good friends with Eddie Carmichael and one of the most irritatingly sanctimonious Slytherin-hating Hufflepuffs who thought of herself as “open-minded.”

 “You could _make_ her trip on it,” Daphne said even more softly, twiddling her fingers with a smirk.

Harry watched Borage turn her nose up at Ginny Weasley. “You know, I just might.”

McGonagall had them all line up in pairs once everyone had settled in the Hall. Harry and Daphne were second to last in line, which went by the champions’ age order; he lifted his chin and followed Chang and Diggory with an unbothered expression. Applause pounded through the Hall as their little procession marched up the center aisle to the top table, where the judges waited along with ten empty chairs. Daphne was in her element, icy and unruffled and clearly delighting in having everyone’s eyes on her.

When they got to the top table, Percy Weasley pointedly pulled out a chair next to him, glaring at Jules. Jules took the hint, pulled out the chair next to that one for Parvati, and sat between Percy and his date. Harry had a few seconds to balance the potential eavesdropping benefits of sitting near Jules and Percy versus how irritating they’d probably be and veered over to position himself and Daphne next to Viktor and Hermione.

“Wonder why Weasley’s here for Crouch,” Daphne murmured.

“He looked ill on Halloween,” Harry said, just as quietly. “Maybe he’s come down with something.”

“No loss if he dies,” Daphne said. On her other side, Hermione coughed rather suddenly.

“Vy do you not like Crouch?” Viktor said.

Hermione drank from her water glass to quell her coughing fit and started explaining.

Harry picked up his menu uncertainly. There was no food anywhere on the table, but he had a number of dishes to choose from.

“Pork chops!” Dumbledore said firmly to his plate, and pork chops appeared.

Ah. Harry almost chose the goulash, realized Daphne probably didn’t want to be smelling his spicy breath while they danced, and asked for steak instead. She requested the minestrone.

Viktor and Hermione struck up an animated (for Viktor, at least) conversation comparing Hogwarts to Durmstrang. Harry was less interested in hearing about Durmstrang and more interested in the way Karkaroff closely monitored their conversation while pretending not to, and how Viktor seemed to be censoring his words. Clearly Karkaroff was the secretive type.

The Durmstrang headmaster’s cold laugh cut off Viktor just as he mentioned a lake and mountains. “Now, now, Viktor, don’t go giving away all our secrets,” he said. “Your charming friend could figure out where to find us.”

Hermione gripped her fork rather tightly.

Daphne broke off a story about a mishap with charmed lipstick that turned her entire nose red for thirty minutes to let out a tinkling laugh. “With so few details, Professor, surely determining the location of a magical school would be near impossible. I’d imagine Durmstrang is hidden at least as well as Hogwarts.”

Harry smirked into his goblet of spiced cider at Daphne’s careful flattery and also the insinuation that Hermione, with the knowledge of little daylight in the winter, large grounds, mountains, and a lake, couldn’t narrow down Durmstrang’s location.

“With all this secrecy, Igor, one would almost think you don’t want visitors,” Dumbledore said, playing with his fork and twinkling genially.

Jules and Parvati broke off their conversation to watch. Percy and Madame Maxime at least pretended to keep conversing and Roger Davies looked too blinded by Delacour to put together a coherent sentence, but everyone else was silent, watching the two men joust.

“Well, Dumbledore,” Karkaroff said, “we are all protective or our private domains, are we not? Do we not jealously guard the halls of learning that have been entrusted to us? Are we not right to be proud that we alone know our school’s secrets, and right to protect them?”

“Oh I would never dream of assuming I know all Hogwarts’ secrets, Igor,” Dumbledore said amiably. “Only this morning, for instance, I took a wrong turn on the way to the bathroom and found myself in a beautifully proportioned room I have never seen before, containing a really rather magnificent collection of chamber pots. When I went back to investigate more closely, I discovered that the room had vanished. But I must keep an eye out for it. Possibly it is only accessible at five-thirty in the morning. Or it may only appear at the quarter moon—or when the seeker has an exceptionally full bladder.”

Jules snorted into his goulash. Harry was extra glad he hadn’t ordered it.

 “Where was this room, Headmaster?” Percy said self-importantly. “I was a Prefect, you know, and I’ve never heard of a disappearing bathroom…”

“It showed itself to me on the seventh floor,” Dumbledore said, “I believe near the tapestry of the ballet-dancing trolls, but there are many doors and stairways in this castle that rarely lead to or appear in the same place… More wine, Madame Maxime?”

Delacour kept on talking to Davies, chattering and clearly using her charm to its full extent, but Harry noticed how tightly she was gripping her steak knife.

“Perhaps we ought to be worried for dear Roger’s safety,” he said

Daphne stirred her soup. “He’s a prat. I’d help her hide the body.”

“Just let me know if you need an alibi,” Harry said with a snicker.

Once all the food had been eaten, Dumbledore stood up and asked everyone to copy him. He waved his wand and all the tables and chairs floated to the edges of the room, causing a few incidents of mild panic as people who hadn’t stood up quickly enough were carried off and their dates or friends had to chase after them.

The Weird Sisters trooped up onto the stage to wild applause. Harry had only started listening to wizarding music since Christmas, really, on his new radio, but he knew enough to be nearly as excited as the teenagers who’d grown up listening to Celestina Warbeck and the Weird Sisters and Grimm Sunshine and other magical musicians.

“May I have this dance?” he said with a smirk.

Daphne rested her hand in his and let him pretend to help her to her feet, smirking back at him. “You may.”

The Weird Sisters struck up a slow, mournful tune. Harry smashed the nerves writhing like miniature basilisks in his stomach and stepped into the dancing form Snape had shown him and Pansy had taught him how to really use, blasting music off her own crystals with a spell as they laughed their way through the steps across the uneven dungeon floor.

For one horrible second, as Daphne put one hand in his and the other on his shoulder, and he wrapped his free hand around her waist, his mind went completely blank—

But his body remembered, and he stepped automatically into the movement of the dance, and Daphne moved with him in perfect time, and then it was just like flying or falling. Nowhere to go but into the music and into the movement and into the next step and swirl and slide. Daphne fit perfectly into him, not touching anywhere but their hands but close enough for him to feel the sheer top part of her dress swirling around his ankles on some of the more exuberant steps, and he could feel the flex and glide of her muscles under the hand he had on her waist and see rings of gray around her pupils that he’d never noticed before.

Harry decided he really liked dancing.

The champions danced for about half the song and then people gradually started joining them on the dance floor. Dumbledore waltzed with Maxime, who managed to dwarf him and look graceful doing it. Jules was an excellent dancer, Harry noticed with some disappointment, but he cheered up when he saw Ronald and Padma.

“Sweet Morgana’s cauldron, what is he _wearing?”_ Daphne said in horror.

“I don’t think those robes have been in style since… the seventeen hundreds maybe,” Harry said.

“Or before.” Daphne wrinkled her nose. “And how has he grown up a pureblood without ever learning to _dance?”_

“Does Anthony have a date?” Harry said.

Daphne sneered at him. “Ask Pansy, I couldn’t care less about everyone’s love lives.”

“He’s your _friend_ ,” Harry said, grinning. “And cousin.”

“I barely care about _your_ love life,” Daphne said with a smirk.

Harry’s brain tried to go numb again but he held onto his ability to talk. “Only barely?”

“Mmm.” She squeaked a little as he spun her fast enough for her hair to fly out behind her in a pale blond fan. “It helps you’re a good dancer,” she added, a little breathless.

“You can thank Pansy for that,” he said with a grin.

Because of how close they were standing, he felt her barely perceptible tension in the split second before it drained away. Harry wasn’t an idiot: Daphne didn’t like hearing that another girl had taught him to dance. “She and Malfoy make a good couple, don’t they?” he added, nodding in the direction of their fellow Slytherins.

Daphne looked that way, then back at Harry, who was careful to look like he couldn’t keep his eyes off of her for more than a few seconds. “They do, at that,” she said.

He wanted to wilt with relief. That could have gone _so_ much worse. And Daphne knew some _nasty_ curses.

The first dance ended, and the Weird Sisters struck up a new song, much faster. “Ooooh, this is a good one!” Daphne said.

“I haven’t heard it yet,” Harry admitted.

“Perfect time to do so, then,” Daphne said.

They ended up dancing in a group with all their friends and a number of mere acquaintances, trading partners and laughing and exchanging snippets of gossip in between songs. Theo dragged Blaise into a parody of a formal dance, with Blaise taking the following part and batting his eyelashes while the shorter Theo stomped and sneered in a comical impression of Professor Snape.

Harry did a turn on the dance floor with Pansy, careful to keep her a very modest distance from him in case Daphne happened to look over from her dance with Niklas, and then with Ginny and Hermione (who danced quite well and admitted she’d asked Anthony to teach her after McGonagall’s lesson turned out quite useless) and Luna.

“Who are you here with?” he asked Luna as he spun her around. It was a bit difficult to dance with her because she made her own modifications to the steps without any kind of prior warning. Harry gave up following the pattern and improvised to match her and made it work, rather enjoying the challenge.

“You, at the moment,” she said.

He raised an eyebrow. “Secret date?”

“I’ve no secrets whatsoever,” she said serenely.

“Sure you don’t.”

Luna smiled. “You’ve a stomach full of serpents tonight, Harry. It’s quite amusing to see you nervous.”

“Doesn’t happen often,” Harry admitted, not even thrown. Luna noticed things other people didn’t.

“I suppose it makes sense,” she said thoughtfully. “Such toxic plants…”

It took Harry about thirty seconds to parse this mental leap. Some overheard conversation between Theo and Neville reminded him that daphne, other than being a name, meant a group of flowering shrubs, every part of which was poisonous. “I work with poison all the time,” he said, grinning as the realization hit. “Friendship is a wonderful antidote, don’t you think?”

“Oh yes,” Luna said. “Not foolproof, but close. Be careful of cross-contamination. How odd, your brother has quite a Wrackspurt infestation tonight.”

Harry looked around and realized their dance had carried them rather near a circle of teens on the edge of the dance floor, taking a break to sip butterbeer or cider and talk and laugh. All of them reminded Harry of medieval courtiers playing attendance to a lord or visiting foreign dignitary, who was played, in this little pageant, by Jules.

“Best dance somewhere else, then,” he said, and managed to steer them smartly back the way they’d come despite Luna’s ongoing individual dance that he _still_ could not predict. “We wouldn’t want to catch any Wrackspurts.”

Luna looked hard at him. “You’re not mocking me,” she said with some surprise.

“Hardly.” Harry neatly checked what was supposed to be a step to their right in order to catch Luna as she very suddenly swayed toward the floor, and managed to make the dip and recovery somewhat premeditated-looking. “I’d hardly make fun of you for making mental leaps I can’t always follow.”

“That’s what I like about you,” she said. “You seem to have a lot of resistance to Wrackspurts.”

“That’s good,” Harry said, looking over her hair (it was elaborately braided with daffodils and sprays of faintly shimmering grayish leaves) at the group of people surrounding Jules. “I don’t much like people with loads of Wrackspurts.”

Dancing with Luna was entertaining, but he was a bit glad when the song ended and Neville asked her to dance. He bowed slightly to them both and returned to the table his friends had claimed to sit at when they took breaks.

“Do we know how she got in?” Daphne said, watching the pair take to the dance floor. Neville was not very good at dealing with Luna’s odd dancing style but he gamely kept at it.

“None,” Pansy said. “I asked her. Three times, once directly and the other two… well, I was _trying_ be roundabout and vague like she prefers, and I know the message got across, but she evaded.”

“Loony Lovegood’s not so loony?” Malfoy said curiously.

“Oh good,” Pansy said with a smirk. “You _can_ be trained.”

Malfoy glared at her. Daphne laughed.

Viktor slouched over and sat down between Harry and Justin, who was deep in conversation with Hannah and ignoring the rest of them. “Hadrian,” he said, “could you possibly do me a favor?”

“That depends on the favor,” Harry said.

“Veasley has been irritating. He insulted Herm-own-inny three times and hurt her feelings.”

“On it,” Daphne said, glowering at Ronald, who was slouching at a table off to one side. Padma sat next to him and looked very sorry for herself.

“Pansy, does Anthony have a date?” Harry asked.

“Nope. He and some of the Ravenclaws came as a group, why?”

Harry grinned. “I’ve an idea. Daphne, could you go track down Anthony? Ask him to dance?”

“I suppose,” Daphne said with a slight smile. “I’m guessing I’ll be traded out for Padma?”

“She’s his House mate, I understand they’re friends,” Harry said.

“You’re awful,” Pansy said with an approving grin.

Harry paused suddenly. “Hey, Malfoy, how would you feel about stealing Weasley’s date?”

“It sounds like a perfect way to make this night even better,” Malfoy said. “Save a dance for me?”

Pansy sipped her wine. How she’d gotten hold of a glass when it was supposedly reserved for staff Harry didn’t know. “If you’re lucky.”

They slid neatly into action. Daphne and Harry seamlessly blended with the group of Ravenclaws, and in five minutes, Daphne was spinning on the dance floor with her cousin while Lisa Turpin regaled them all with a story of climbing up a library shelf to get a book and then falling off and landing on top of Madam Pince. Harry laughed at all the right moments and watched as Malfoy crossed the hall and ignored Ronald completely while bowing smoothly to Padma. He was the picture of arrogant aristocratic grace, and Padma’s brown skin darkened slightly as she accepted his hand with a grateful smile. Pansy winked at Harry from their table as Malfoy and Padma took to the dance floor, finished her wine, and joined Harry with the Ravenclaws. 

Malfoy and Padma finished that dance and then the whole of the next one, and then Pansy deftly cut in and Harry found Daphne and Anthony (who Daphne had maneuvered very near the other couple as the dance went on) and asked for his date back with a warm (fake) laugh. Daphne suggested Anthony go ask Padma to dance, since she hadn’t even made it off the dance floor yet. He agreed without thinking about it and all four Slytherins retreated to their table again to watch Padma dance with Anthony. She already looked worlds happier, and when the song ended, she walked back over to Lisa and Sue and their other House mates without so much as a glance at Ronald.

“Perfect plan, perfect execution,” Pansy said, lifting her glass in Harry’s direction.

He grinned. “Look at the Weasel’s face.”

Subtly, they all took turns looking over at Ronald. He was glaring at Hermione and Viktor, who hadn’t stopped dancing for more than one song the whole night, and were the picture of happiness as they spun in graceful circles. Hermione really did look beautiful tonight, and Viktor’s sullenness was completely gone, shattered by the pleasure that seemed to light him up from inside as he kept his eyes firmly on her face.

“But I think there’s one more thing I could try…” Daphne murmured. She pointed her wand at Ronald and whispered a word Harry didn’t catch.

“What was that?” Malfoy asked as a few seconds ticked by and nothing happened.

Daphne grinned. “Permanent Sticking Charm.”

“You’re well suited for each other,” Malfoy muttered, waving at Daphne and Harry.

Viktor muttered “thank you” in Harry’s direction the next time he and Hermione took a break.

 

Two hours in, Harry noticed… something. An opportunity, possibly. “Daphne,” he said, “would you mind terribly if I asked her to dance?”

Daphne looked where he was and examined the situation for a few moments. “Depends on why.”

“So we don’t have murder at the Yule Ball,” Harry said promptly. “Entertaining as that may be. Also, I know her not at all. It’s as good a chance as any.”

“Don’t make an idiot of yourself.”

“I’m not Weasley,” Harry said indignantly.

Daphne laughed at him.

He may not have been Weasley, but approaching a group of infatuated older boys from other Houses and the cause of their idiocy was intimidating. Harry channeled a combination of Malfoy and Sirius as he approached.

Fleur Delacour narrowed her eyes shrewdly and then flashed a blinding smile as he stepped neatly into a gap between Toby Pritchard and Mitch Connell, forcing them to grudgingly shuffle aside or look like brutes though they’d undoubtedly rather keep him far away. “Ah, eet ees ‘Adrian Potter,” she said. “To what do we owe the ‘onor?”

“A woman as stunning as you shouldn’t have to stand still during such excellent music,” Harry said smoothly. “Would you care to join me for a dance?”

“A delightful idea,” she said, turning up the wattage of her smile.

Harry led her onto the dance floor and ignored the fact that she was easily three inches taller.

“Zis is a lovely song,” Delacour said, looking at him in a way that was designed to make him feel like the only person in the room who mattered. Even with his Occlumency, at this range, it was hard to remind himself that she was feeling him out as much as he was her.

“I’ve never heard it before,” Harry said indifferently.

“Really.” _There_ was genuine interest for the first time, he thought. “I was under ze impression zat zese musicians are populaire in England.”

“Muggle raised.” Harry stepped out of the way of Fred and Angelina Johnson’s wild dancing; he didn’t feel like getting a concussion if Fred elbowed him in the head. “You can stop attempting to charm me, Miss Delacour. I assure you I’m only interested in you as a competitor.”

She smiled again, and the pressure of veela magic battered against his mental shields like a ram. “Why ask me to dance, then?”

Harry focused on that first sight of Daphne in her dress. “So you _can_ do it on purpose,” he said with a narrow smile. “I thought to give you a break from the drooling idiots over there.”

“And if I did not want a break?” Merlin be blessed, she relaxed the magical pull, and eyed him with something more akin to cunning than flirtation.

“Then at the very least you get a dance,” Harry said, spinning her for emphasis. “I’m told I’m rather good at dancing.”

“Reasonably so,” she said. “For your age. Zat was noble of you, ‘Adrian Potter.”

“Well, we _are_ supposed to be fostering, oh, what was it?” He smirked. “Goodwill and a spirit of international cooperation?”

She laughed. “Tell me, are you simply not interested in women?”

“I’m most definitely interested in women,” Harry said. “It’s just that I, unlike many, can appreciate a piece of stunning artwork without necessarily wanting to take it home.”

“An Occlumens, then.”

It was his turn to lose his studied composure for a moment.

Delacour smiled, and there was the steel he’d suspected her of hiding all along. “I ‘ave yet to find any man unable to resist me ‘oo does not know ‘ow to guard ‘is mind,” she said with a hair flip. “Ze same for zose women ‘oo prefer ozzer women. You interest me, Mr. Potter. Perhaps you would like to stay in touch after zis is all over?”

“I would, thanks,” he said. “International friends can be so… informative.”

“Thank you for the dance,” Delacour said. “Zat Davies is a sweet boy but not especially interesting.”

“Best of luck in the future tasks,” Harry said, bowing deeply.

Delacour cocked her head. “You as well.”

“Interesting dance?” Daphne said when he rejoined her.

“I almost feel bad for her,” Harry said. “She can’t talk to most boys without them falling over themselves and she can’t talk to most girls without them getting catty and jealous.”

“That’s because people are idiots,” Daphne said with a sniff. “Let’s dance a bit more before they kick us all out.”

 

Everyone regrouped, tired and happy, at thirty minutes to midnight, which was when the dance would officially be over. The crowds were beginning to thin out as people trickled off to bed.

“Where’s Hermione?” Theo said. “And Viktor?”

 “Karkaroff dragged the Durmstrang lot off thirty minutes ago,” Neville said. “I thought Hermione was with you guys.”

“I haven’t seen her in a while,” Daphne said.

“Hermione?”

They turned in unison to look at Ginny and Noah. “Yes,” Harry said.

“She ran off crying fifteen minutes ago,” Ginny said darkly. “Thanks to my _dear_ brother, who insulted her for something idiotic after yelling at me in front of half of Gryffindor for coming with a Slytherin. Never mind I _am_ a Slytherin.”

Noah shrugged. “That’s his problem. Do we have time for one more dance, Gin?”

“Definitely,” Ginny said. “I need to not end on that note.”

“Wait, what about Malfoy?” Blaise said.

Pansy’s eyes narrowed. “He ran out of here fifteen minutes ago, after seeing something over my shoulder and turning white as a sheet.”

“Ahhh,” Daphne said. Harry put the pieces together and his eyebrows started climbing towards his hairline.

“And that doesn’t… bother you?” Hannah said.

“Nope,” Pansy said with a slow smile. “Not in the slightest. I’ve no romantic interest in Draco and he’s got none for me.”

“Huh,” Zoey Hughes said. “Why’d you come together, then?”

There was a pause, as all the Slytherins wondered how much of their politics they should try to explain and Neville, Justin, and Hannah adopted looks of long-suffering patience.

“We’re friends,” Pansy said. “And neither of us had a romantic date, so…”

“Oh, that makes sense,” Zoey said cheerfully. “I think they’re kicking us out now.”

“Want to go for a walk?” Harry said as he and Daphne joined the flow of students leaving the Great Hall.

She grinned. “I hear they put warming charms over the gardens.”

“Great idea.”

The warming charms over the gardens turned out to be doing very little, but Harry draped his winter cloak over her shoulders and then slid his hands underneath it to rest lightly on her waist so he could push warmth into her dress.

“You’re not cold?” Daphne said.

“I can warm my dress robes from inside out,” Harry said with a wink, making her blush again. “Magic’s useful that way. Plus, I’ve long sleeves.”

“Good point.”

Daphne reached out and took his hand while they walked, talking idly about the dance and their friends’ drama. “Wonder what Weasley said to Hermione,” Daphne muttered.

“Something nasty, I have no doubt.”

“Wonder who went and vanished the chair to let him up,” Daphne mused. “They should’ve taken care of those robes with it, done us all a favor.”

“Malfoy and Hermione, though.”

Daphne shook her head. “That’ll go nowhere this year. She’s got Viktor and he’s too much of a prat to date—well, to date the Muggle-born, frankly, for now. Although I have it on good authority his parents knocked a bit of sense into him last summer after he complained one time too many about you being friends with Hermione and Theo instead of him. Maybe he’s finally growing up.”

“Took him long enough,” Harry said dourly.

Daphne laughed.

Harry changed the subject.

They stopped in the moonlight after about ten minutes of wandering; several times they’d had to dodge other couples (mostly older) snogging in the bushes. Harry thought that snogging looked… well, like something he wanted to try, but also like an exceedingly vulnerable position to be in. Also, he didn’t know what Daphne expected. Or wanted.

He needed to ask someone about the rules for this, and not Sirius, because it was quite clear Sirius delighted in breaking any rule set in front of him as quickly and flagrantly as possible. He’d have asked Spencer Wright if Harry ever saw him but Wright was busy last Harry checked with the Minister’s office. Maybe Miles or Adrian. Or Theo.

But standing there, looking at Daphne, Harry was quite certain that he wanted to kiss her and that this was a good moment to do it.

They both paused, hesitating—

Harry involuntarily glanced down at Daphne’s lips, thin and pink and familiar, so often seen curved into a mocking smirk or a mean grin or simply set in cool indifference, and when he looked back up at her eyes she was undeniably smug.

They leaned in at the same moment.

Harry angled his head right and Daphne angled hers to her left and their noses bumped into each other. Half-laughing, they tried again— “I’ll go the other way, then,” Daphne said with a slight blush, and this time—this time their lips connected.

With a sputter, Harry’s brain short-circuited, and all he could think was that he’d never known lips could be this _sensitive._ He slid his hands under Daphne’s cloak again and rested them on her waist and—he really didn’t know what he was doing here, only that he wanted her closer to him, so he tugged her a little forward and she stepped into him willingly and put her arms around his neck.

Daphne was the first to shift away and smile up at him. “Thank you for tonight, Harry.”

“Thank _you_ ,” he said, grinning back. “I can’t imagine how boring it would be with someone I didn’t like.”

“Helps that I’m gorgeous,” Daphne said with a smirk.

“Humble, too.”

“Humility’s overrated,” she said dismissively. “We should get back before Warrington comes after us.”

“Or worse, _Snape.”_

Daphne giggled. “Oh Merlin, could you _imagine?”_

Harry put on his best imitation of the Potions Master as they walked, hand in hand, back towards the castle. “I suppose such a display of teenage idiocy should be expected after years of watching your fumbling flirtations but somehow I’m still surprised,” he sneered. “Return to your dormitories at once before dealing with this gives me a migraine.”

Daphne was laughing hard by the time he finished. She stopped rather suddenly as they rounded the last corner out of the garden paths and came face-to-face with Snape himself.

“Good evening, sir,” Harry said politely. “Or I suppose it’s morning now, we’re past midnight…”

Snape’s lips twitched. There was no way he hadn’t heard Harry’s imitation of him, but all he said was “Curfew has been extended to one a.m. today in light of the… festivities. Do not push your good fortune.”

“Of course not,” Daphne said sweetly.

“Admirable comportment, Mr. Potter,” Snape added. “It was a pleasant surprise to see you not make a mockery of Slytherin House tonight.”

“My only thought was to honor my House,” Harry said solemnly.

Snape waved them on.

Daphne managed to contain her laughter until they got back inside. “Here,” she said, unpinning his cloak from her throat, “thanks for loaning it to… _Harry.”_

“What?” Then Harry realized she was staring at his cloak pin and remembered he’d used the one Sirius gave him for his birthday, the one with the combined Potter-Black crest.

“That close, then?” she said.

“Yes,” Harry admitted. He fastened the cloak back around his own shoulders to transport it back to the dorms. “I… well, my actual father didn’t give me so much as a pair of old socks, so…”

“I’m glad you have Sirius,” Daphne said quietly.

“Me, too.”

“Would he be willing to come over for tea or dinner sometime this summer?” Daphne said. “With my mum and dad, I mean. He seems to like nice clothes; I’m sure Mum would like his opinion on the mens’ branch…”

“I’ll ask,” Harry said. “I was going to talk to him on the mirrors tonight anyway, before I go to bed. I’ll bet he’d love to.”

Daphne grinned. “I look forward to it.”

“And he does love to talk about clothes,” Harry added. “He was right pissed when he realized none of his old things in Grimmauld Place fit modern styles anymore. I think Tate and Laurens took him out shopping, actually, gave him a crash course in how things have changed.”

“Father told me Laurens is lined up to be Sirius’ proxy on the Wizengamot if he has to come up here short notice,” Daphne said. “You could do a lot worse, she’s one of the best consultants his firm contracts out to.”

“D’you want to be a lawyer?” Harry said. “Will you inherit the firm?”

“Don’t think so,” Daphne said. “I don’t know for sure what I want to do, but a career in magical law isn’t it. Neither’s Mum’s business. Jack Morris—the third partner—he’s a bachelor and childless. They’ll both leave most of their say in the company to Tate, with a portion of the profit and an unofficial consulting arrangement for our family. Tate’s a family friend, it should work out. Do you know what you want to do?”

“Auror training,” Harry said with a straight face.

Daphne hit him on the arm. “The truth, you prat.”

“I… well, I won’t inherit the Potter seat for a good while,” Harry said. “The Potters tend to live good long lives. Fleamont died at over two hundred years old, and James is only in his thirties. I suppose I’ll go maybe study potions, get a Mastery, or see if I can find a Parselmouth overseas who’ll teach me about it.”

“Lucky there’s no rule banning Parselmouths from the Wizengamot,” Daphne said.

“Wouldn’t put it past James to try to enact one before he kicks the bucket,” Harry said. “Mistletoe.”

They walked into the common room and found a lot of sleepy Slytherins lazing about. Several bottles of wine or firewhiskey had been opened and glasses were being passed around. Harry was exhausted and he needed to work on the egg clue the next day, though, plus he really ought to pay attention to all his tedious homework, so he waved the tray on and kissed Daphne for a few more minutes in a shadowed corner before retreating to his dorm.

Theo, Blaise, and Malfoy were all still gone, but Crabbe and Goyle had both passed out in their beds, snoring. Harry sighed and shot nonverbal silencing spells at them before crawling into his own bed to mirror-call Sirius.

 

Harry managed to knock out all his holiday homework in the three days right after Christmas and returned to the egg clue.

 

“He’s _half giant!”_

“How were you even surprised?” Blaise sighed, not even looking up from the toast he was buttering.

Malfoy scowled at him over his coffee. “I always thought he’d swallowed a bottle of Skele-Gro as a child or something.”

“Did you help with this at all?” Theo said, tapping the Prophet, which was flipped open to Skeeter’s nasty article.

“Didn’t have to,” Malfoy said. “That Skeeter woman can do plenty of damage on her own. She asked if it was true he’d presented hippogriffs to the class and I was injured, I said yes, that was that. Not my fault she spun it into… this.” He curled one lip at the paper. “As if anyone would be stupid enough to believe that bit she made up about dangerous flobberworms, they haven’t even got teeth.”

Harry rubbed his forehead. “You underestimate people’s stupidity, Malfoy. Not that I think Hagrid should be teaching, he’s an appalling teacher as far as I can tell, but Skeeter will have effectively convinced half the parents he’s a dangerous menace.”

“He _is_ ,” Blaise said. “By some definitions. You really oughtn’t bring hippogriffs around thirteen-year-olds, not unless the students have been prepared and aren’t thrown in front of them with three minutes’ instruction and one student demonstration.”

“I wonder…” Harry murmured, looking at the paper.

 Theo and Blaise exchanged a glance.

“Where are the girls?” he asked.

“Gossiping with Hermione and Hannah about something, why?” Theo said.

“I need to talk to Pansy about something,” Harry said, “but it’s not urgent. Malfoy, how well do you know Skeeter?”

Malfoy watched him carefully. “Why?”

Harry flicked his wand and whispered an incantation that would keep anyone from eavesdropping.

“Does your family have her in your pocket?” Theo asked.

Malfoy smirked. “Let’s just say dear Rita has a greedy streak Mother uses to keep her in line. We can’t dictate _all_ of what she does, but the connection exists, and she tends to leave us alone while going after our political enemies.”

“Perfect,” Harry said with a grin. “How interested would she be in running a piece that destroyed my father’s reputation?”

“Very,” Malfoy said. “Far as I can tell, she doesn’t care who she’s writing about, as long as it’s scandalous and gets her name told and her Prophet commission up.”

Blaise’s dark eyes gleamed. “You’re going to make very sure James and that pet lawyer of his can’t recover from the trials.”

“Dumbledore’s a bigger bite than I can chew at the moment,” Harry said. “James, though.”

“That’s your family name,” Theo said.

“Unfortunately,” Harry muttered. “But the Boy Who Lived is a Potter, and so is the abused, neglected, forgotten Potter heir, who endured horrific treatment at the hands of magic-hating Muggles for ten years because of Dumbledore and especially James Potter’s negligence… he’s _also_ a Potter. We’ll carry on the Potter name and have my father denounced as the traitor to our family, not Jules and not me.”

“Jules?” Theo said.

Harry looked across the Great Hall at his brother, who was half-laughing at something Ronald was saying while listening to Neville talk about something. “He’s a prat but it’s not really his fault. And he’s family. And I doubt even Skeeter would try to _directly_ attack the Boy Who Lived… make him look like a hypersensitive crybaby, sure, but attack him outright? No.”

“She might,” Malfoy muttered, “if you paid her enough.”

“And he’s family,” Harry said.

That they understood.

 

One week into January, Hagrid had still not emerged from hiding despite Jules’ entire pack of Gryffindors trying to hunt him down, a witch named Grubbly-Plank had taken over Care to the delight of everyone except said pack of Gryffindors, and Harry made a breakthrough.

He stared at the textbook in front of him in the library. Dusty, massive, and half-forgotten, it described the languages of every magical creature ever confirmed to exist, even with only a brief footnote for those too rare, too uninteresting, or too dangerous to have been studied in depth.

“Madam Pince, I’d like to check this out, please,” he said.

“Hmph. No damage,” the library warned, waving her wand over the book and giving him a beady-eyed glare. “This is older than your family, Potter.”

 _Doubtful._ The binding looked like it was from the 1400s at the absolute earliest. “I’ll be careful, thank you.”

“Don’t know what it is with that book now,” he heard Pince mutter as he walked away. “First that Diggory, now this…”

So Diggory had worked it out, too. Hm.

Harry started running as soon as he was out of the library. It was nearly nine o’clock and the corridors were mostly empty; he still took all the shortcuts and secret passages he knew so there’d be no rumors about Harry Potter sprinting through the corridors to fend off the next day.

“Where’s the troll, Potter?” Warrington called when he hurtled into the common room.

“It’s Mermish!” he shouted back, dodging tables and couches and going straight for his dorm.

Theo and Blaise caught up to him while he was opening the secret compartment of his trunk for the egg. “What did you say?” Blaise said.

“Mermish,” Harry said. “It’s Mermish. Underwater, Mermish twists and sounds like the listener’s native language, but above water it has its own distinct sound. No one’s sure why.”

“There’s a theory that the original Merpeople were humans subject to a horrible curse,” Theo said animatedly. “A transfiguration gone wrong—possibly an attempt to grant themselves the kind of anatomy that would allow temporary survival or even ease of survival during flood conditions. It tied their magic to the water, hence the language issues and how they can’t leave it for long—I’m such an idiot, how’d I not see this sooner—”

“No one was thinking of Merpeople,” Blaise said as Harry grabbed his towel and the egg and ran for the bathroom.

Two second-year boys were in the big in-floor bathtub, sitting and talking idly, but they took one look at Harry’s face and scrambled out fast. He stripped and waited impatiently while the water drained and then refilled at the hot temperature he preferred.

When it finally reached the top of the tub and the jets quit, Harry jumped straight in. He surfaced just in time to hear the tail end of Blaise’s indignation at being splashed.

“Baby,” Harry said.

Theo tossed him the egg, smirking.

“Here goes,” Harry muttered, cast a weight charm on himself, sinking to the bottom of the bathtub. It was just deep enough for him to submerge completely sitting down with his legs stretched out in front of him.

Harry rested the egg on his thighs, got his fingernails into the groove around its middle, and pried it open.

Unearthly, eerily beautiful voices rippled through the water.

_Come seek us where our voices sound_

_We cannot sing above the ground,_

_And while you’re searching, ponder this:_

_We’ve taken what you’ll sorely miss,_

_An hour long you’ll have to look,_

_And to recover what we took,_

_But past an hour—the prospect’s black,_

_Too late, it’s gone, it won’t come back._

Harry canceled the weight charm and let himself float to the surface. “Can one of you copy this down?” he said. “If I use _pyrologos_ to write it above the tub—”

“On it,” Blaise said, already tugging out his notebook and a quill.

Harry breathed deeply in and out a few times, a trick he remembered from sitting at the side of the pool during Dudley’s swimming lessons as a child, and recast the weight charm.

 _Pyrologos_ , he thought, and listened to the song three more times through, committing it mostly to memory even as he stuck his wand above the water and wrote the song in the air above the bathtub.

He surfaced again with a heaving breath. “Got it all?” he gasped.

Blaise knelt next to the bathtub with a look that said _you’d better not get me wet again._ “How’s this look?”

Harry scanned the parchment. “Great.”

“Seek us where our voices sound,” Theo mused. “That’s obvious… probably the Black Lake, Hermione read the documents about the Tournament and she said it all has to happen on Hogwarts grounds. I wonder what they’re going to take… Your Firebolt, maybe? Or your wand, or the mirror to Sirius…”

“Why do you look ill?” Blaise said.

He’d always been perceptive, always been good at seeing through Harry’s mask. That was probably thanks to his mum. Harry closed his eyes and slumped against the side of the bathtub and thought petulantly about how very much he did not want to reveal what he found himself forced to tell them.

“I can’t swim,” he said.

“What?” Blaise frowned.

“I can’t swim!”

Harry’s voice rang against the tile walls of the bathroom.

“I’m kind of afraid of water, actually,” he said, forcing the words out because he knew if he stopped he wouldn’t be able to start again. “There was an incident at a public dock with Dudley and his friends when we were eight. They kept throwing me back in when I tried to climb out, I was so exhausted I couldn’t swim by the end of it and—this other man at the dock jumped in and dragged me out. It was a year before I could bring myself to get in a bathtub—I just used the showers.

“Well,” Blaise said. “That’s a problem.”

Harry found himself laughing helplessly.

 

_Fred Weasley, George Weasley_

_HP_

_3 years ago you offered me a favor_

_I’m collecting_

_GW_

_what favor_

_HP_

_You knocked me into a pond, and then had to drag me out, and then offered to teach me how to swim_

_That favor_

_FW_

_where and why_

_HP_

_Knights Room I’ll explain_

 

“That’s… threatening,” Fred said.

“They’re really not pulling their punches with this tournament.” George shook his head.

“I know,” Harry said grimly. “And frankly, this one worries me more than dragons.”

“Prefects’ bathroom?” George said. “We could probably find a way in there…”

“No,” Harry said. The thought of saying what he was about to say filled him with gibbering terror, but… “I haven’t got time to start in a nice quiet warm pool and work my way up. It’ll probably be in the Black Lake so that’s where I need to learn.”

The twins exchanged a glance. “I’ll grab the Perky Peppers,” Fred said, already heading for the door. “Meet you two down there.”

“Perky Peppers?” Blaise said skeptically, speaking up for the first time.

George smirked. “One of our products. Eat it and it makes you uncomfortably warm from the inside. With a few modifications, a single Perky Pepper can keep you warm for quite a long time. How long it lasts goes down the colder you get.”

“Harry can use his warming charms but you and Fred don’t want to freeze?” Blaise translated.

“Exactly. Get shorts and a T-shirt, Harry, meet us down by the lake.”

Harry and Blaise set off for the common room.

“This is going to be hell,” Harry said.

Blaise laughed at him. “I’m sure Daphne will be more than happy to warm you up afterward.”

“Don’t be crass,” Harry said with all the disdain he could muster. “How’s Iris, by the way?”

“Excellent,” Blaise said. “I’ve never noticed now many nice shadowy corners there are in this castle before.”

Harry really wished he lived a live where his biggest worry was sneaking around to snog his girlfriend in corners.

 

 _“You are insane_ ,” Eriss said, flicking her tail at the water. _“It is_ cold.”

“What’d she saying?” Blaise said, turning a page of his book. He sat against a tree on a summoned blanket, Eriss coiled in his lap.

Harry scowled at the Black Lake, which lived up to its name in the winter cold. The Durmstrang ship rocked gently on the other side of the lake; he’d hopped on his broom and Blaise borrowed Theo’s to get over here and well out of the way. “That I’m insane.”

“She’s right,” Blaise said flatly. “And _I’m_ insane for following you out here.”

“Moral support,” Harry said.

Blaise snorted. “You’ve got morals?”

“Shut up.”

“Just think of it this way, the sooner you get this over with the sooner you can make it back to the castle and start on the pile of books Theo and Hermione will have found for you,” Blaise said.

“Definitely sounds more fun than this.”

“They’re coming.”

Harry looked up. Two ginger-haired blurs on broomsticks shot towards them, less than half a meter above the surface of the lake.

Fred landed first, George a second behind him. “Ready to freeze, Harrykins?” George said, grinning.

“If you try to prank him I’ll curse you into next month,” Blaise said without looking up from his book.

“Would we do that?” Fred gasped.

“Yes,” Harry said. “And if you prank me, I’ll curse you once Blaise is done, and you’ll wake up in St. Mungo’s.”

“You could try,” George said with a smirk. “Bottoms up, Feorge.”

“Absolutely, Gred.”

They both tipped a small reddish candy into their mouth.

“Merlin, those work well,” George said.

“We’re geniuses,” Fred agreed. “Let’s do this.”

Harry concentrated on warmth and life and fire, smiles and evenings with his friends, and his magic wrapped around him, tying warmth into his limbs. He toed off his trainers and robe and mentally increased the power of the internal spell until the vicious January wind didn’t bother him.

George jumped into the lake with a whoop, splashing Fred and Harry. Fred yelled indignantly and charged in after his brother.

Harry took one tentative step forward, and then another, and another, until he was up to mid-thigh in the lake and struggling with memories. Memories of flailing around with no sense of direction, choking for air and finding only the tepid lake, mocking laughter from the dock whenever he managed to fight his way above the surface, hands throwing him back in the water.

 _Master yourself_ , he told himself, and focused on what he felt here and now instead. He was stable and safe and on his feet, and for all the warnings about pranks he trusted Fred and George. The mud of the lake floor was slimy and cold under his feet, sloping gently away into darkness and Merlin knew what hiding down there with the merpeople.

“You good?” George said.

“Not in any sense of the word,” Harry said grimly, taking another step forward.

He had to stop again when he was chest deep. The twins swam over to him. “Okay,” George said. “We did swim lessons as kids, they started with floating.”

“Voila,” Fred said, dipping backwards until his body floated gently on his back in the water.

George splashed water over Fred’s face, making him sputter. “Deep breaths, chest up, little movements of your arms and hands if you need to, just relax.”

“We’ve got you,” Fred added, neatly kicking George’s legs out from under him as he stood up again.

“I can’t believe I’m trusting _you two_ of all people,” Harry grumbled, before doing what Fred had done.

And promptly panicking and thrashing around until he was upright again, thoroughly soaked, heart pounding wildly.

“Well, fuck,” George said, examining a rapidly purpling bruise on his chest with interest. Harry vaguely remembered punching him.

“I think I need to start slower,” Harry muttered. “And maybe not have you guys near me.”

“Someone has trust issues,” Fred stage-whispered.

Harry retreated to the shallower section, ignoring how Blaise was pretending not to watch with some concern, and spent ten minutes lying back there until he could lift his arms off the lake bottom and have only his hips and legs touching and let his head float and not panic.

Fred and George splashed around and kept an eye on him and called out advice from far enough away that they couldn’t grab him before he reacted. In degrees, he adjusted to the concept of floating. _It’s just a bathtub_ , he told himself. _A really fucking big bathtub, with monsters at the bottom. Magical creatures trying to eat you, you can handle that, as long as you figure out how to swim first._

He floated on his back with just his feet touching, knees bent and hands paddling to keep him stable, fighting his panic.

“Lift your feet?” Blaise called.

Harry took a deep breath, then another, and tried like Blaise said.

It felt like being unmoored and unsafe and out of control. Vulnerable. All things Harry hated.

But there was no one close to him—Fred and George were still having some kind of splash fight five meters away, Blaise was out of the water, no one close to take advantage of his vulnerability. And he didn’t sink. Harry let himself float for several minutes, thinking about his breathing and doing Occlumency exercises until the panic didn’t feel quite so alive.

He swung his feet down and stood up. He’d drifted out a bit; the water came up to his waist.

“Try this now,” Fred suggested, levitating George out of the water. George made faces while he imitated treading water while hovering above the lake. Harry grinned at how ridiculous he looked with his pale, freckled legs paddling the air, which was probably the reaction the twins had been going for.

 _Okay, I can do this, I fought off a basilisk and I’ve faced Voldemort_ twice _, I can do this_.

“Look at it like beating the pig,” Blaise suggested from the shore.

Harry smiled grimly. That was good motivation.

Treading water took another thirty minutes to figure out, but he got to the point where he could alternate between floating and paddling upright, and he could dog-paddle around in circles, and the whole time the panic battered at his mental shields but he kept his mind clear through sheer stubbornness. The Dursleys didn’t get to control him anymore.

They had to stop because it was getting dark, but the twins promised to come teach Harry proper swimming strokes that weekend, and they climbed aboard their brooms, Eriss clinging unhappily to Harry’s neck and shoulders, to fly back to the castle.

As promised, Hermione and Theo had dug up a large stack of books on water creatures, both in general and those known to reside in the Black Lake.

“I don’t even want to know how many times she’s read this,” Pansy said, flipping through a copy of _Hogwarts, A History_ that bristled with bookmarks. “She checked it out, sat down, and started flipping straight to all the relevant passages so she could mark them. I think she’s got it _memorized.”_

“She actually might,” Harry said absently, pulling _On Grindylows_ towards him.

Daphne tucked herself neatly into Harry’s side on the green couch. “What idiot thinks it’s a good idea for you all to jump into the Black Lake in February?”

“The same idiots who thought it was reasonable to involve dragons in a sporting event for children,” Theo said. “Namely, Dumbledore.”

“I’m off to meet Iris,” Blaise said, checking his watch. “I’ll see you wankers later.”

Theo flipped him off. Blaise smirked and strolled out of the common room with only a warning to not get caught because it was past curfew from Adrian.

Harry resigned himself to a month of studying.

 

The Marauders’ Map proved invaluable to tracking Viktor down the next morning. “Hold up,” Harry said.

Viktor glanced around and saw him. He muttered something to Niklas and Timur, who waved at Harry before continuing down the now-well-trodden path to their ship.

“Have you sorted out the egg clue?” Harry said.

“I haf,” Viktor said. “You?”

“Yeah, just checking,” Harry said with a grin. “I owed you for the dragons. Borrow _Hogwarts, A History_ from Hermione if you want to figure out what’s in the lake.”

“Thank you,” Viktor said.

Harry nodded, and that was that.

He paid his debts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N 1: Daphne is a genus of 70-95 species of shrubs with scented flowers and berries. They’re used in rock gardens and ornamental gardens around Europe but every part of each plant is poisonous, esp. the berries. Luna loves her convoluted metaphors.


	16. The Second Task

Harry skipped the January Hogsmeade visit, spending the day practicing his swimming and his self-transfiguration. Neville told him secondhand how Hermione yelled at Rita Skeeter in the middle of the Three Broomsticks and then went marching off to drag Hagrid out of his shame-induced retreat because “that vile woman doesn’t get to ruin his life!” Neville and Jules both got caught up in it.

“She was a little scary,” Jules said in the library that evening. “Kept going on about how she was going to get Skeeter back… I mean, she’s a cow, Hermione’s right, but still, what can any of us do?”

“You could, you’re _faaaaay-mous,_ ” Theo said.

Jules glared at him. “I’ll talk about Hagrid at a press conference or something this summer, make it obvious we like him and he’s great.”

“Brilliant,” Theo said, without a hint of sarcasm or insincerity.

Neville rolled his eyes.

“Have you figured out the egg clue?” Harry said.

Jules flinched. “Er—yes,” he said.

“You need to learn how to lie better,” Theo informed him. “Seriously. That was pathetic.”

“Listen to it underwater,” Harry said.

“Why are you helping me?” Jules demanded.

Harry checked around them; fortunately no one was near the four boys. “Keep it down,” he hissed.

Jules looked mutinous.

“You were willing to tell me about the dragons,” Harry said. “I owed you.”

“It’s nearly curfew,” Neville said after Jules didn’t respond for a long thirty seconds. “We should…”

“Yeah,” Theo said. “Let’s go.”

Harry mentally shrugged and crammed his books in his bag. If Jules was going to be a prat, it wasn’t his problem.

“Thanks,” Jules said, right as Harry and Theo were turning away.

“Of course, little brother,” Harry said with a smirk.

 

_“Harry. Harry, wake up…”_

_“Eriss?”_ Harry said groggily. “ _What time… tempus.”_ He cast the spell without a wand and then draped his arm over his eyes. _“Why are you waking me up at one in the morning?”_

 _“Your journal lit up,”_ Eriss said testily. _“No one ever writes at night. It was weird, so I woke you—what if someone needs help?”_

Harry sighed and sat up all the way. He fumbled his wand out from under his pillow and summoned his glasses and notebook and fountain pen from the bedside table. _“Okay, fair point, thanks.”_

 _“I’m going back to sleep.”_ Eriss slithered off his chest and disappeared into her nest in the wall.

Harry flipped the journal open; he had a new message on the silver page linked to Neville.

_NL_

_Just so you know, Jules is gone_

_HP_

_Why?_

_NL_

_Not sure. I fell asleep reading in the common room and went up to bed just now and he was gone_

_He’s been keeping the egg on his bedside table_

_It’s gone_

_HP_

_The idiot was totally lying about having the clue figured out, he’s probably off working on it_

_NL_

_Yeah but he’s not in our bathroom_

_HP_

_…that’s weird. Hang on, I’ll get the Map out_

_what the hell_

_He’s at the top of the staircase with the trick step you always forget to jump_

_But I just saw Bartemius Crouch in Snape’s office on the Map_

_NL_

_???_

_HP_

_No idea. I’m going to look_

_NL_

_How Gryffindor of you_

_HP_

_Potential blackmail material is always worth getting out of bed for. If I don’t show up at breakfast tell Theo and Blaise where I went_

_NL_

_If you don’t show up tomorrow I’m going to curse Jules._

Harry pressed his wand holster to his arm, slid the holly wand inside as soon as the straps finished attaching themselves, and slid out of bed. He whispered the password to his trunk and threw on a plain school robe over his pajamas without bothering with a robe pin.

 _“Eriss, want to come?”_ he said, tugging on his soundless shoes.

_“Not in the slightest.”_

He grinned and crept out of the dorm.

A proper Disillusionment Charm was beyond Harry, but between the Map, the snakes, and powerful Notice-Me-Not charms, he could move around in secret pretty easily. He kept an eye on the Map while he moved, checking it periodically. Filch was lurking near Jules—but he couldn’t see Crouch anywhere.

The corridor that led to Snape’s office gleamed with torches. He looked at the Map. Crouch wasn’t in there anymore, but Snape was.

_“Slytherin’s Heir.”_

He looked down at his feet. _“Hi, Mariko.”_

_“Are you looking for the greasy man?”_

_“No,”_ Harry said, snorting. _“Someone else. There was someone in Snape’s office who shouldn’t have been, did you see…”_

 _“I like sleeping there,”_ Mariko said. _“I like how the herbs smell. But there was another wizard around, I didn’t see him but I felt his magic. It was powerful.”_

_“Do you know where he went?”_

_“No.”_ Mariko’s tongue flickered unhappily. _“I am sorry.”_

_“It’s all right. If you see him in the future, follow him, okay?”_

_“As you will, Speaker.”_

Harry looked up very suddenly. Foosteps, approaching.

He skittered back down the hall and pressed himself flat to the stone.

Snape stormed out of the corridor, a look of black, absolute fury on his face.

Well, if nothing else, Snape was sure to track down Crouch, and it could take forever to flip through all the Map’s panels squinting at names printed too small to read easily. Harry wiped it, stuffed it in his pocket, and followed the Potions Master.

Both of them jumped and whipped out their wands when a sudden crashing and wailing echoed through the corridors. Snape looked around wildly for a moment and then took off at a run. Harry bolted after him.

“Filch? What’s going on?”

Harry slid to a halt and silenced himself so his panting wouldn’t alert Snape he had a tail. He slid into a shadowy corner and listened closely. This was the base of the staircase Harry had seen Jules creeping down.

“It’s Peeves, Professor,” Filch whispered malevolently. “He threw this egg down the stairs!”

_Jules, how could you drop the damn egg?_

Snape climbed the stairs and took the egg from Filch, turning it over in his hands. Harry leaned out of his hiding spot and listened closely.

“…couldn’t get into my office,” Snape murmured.

“This egg was in your office, Professor?”

“Of course not,” Snape snapped. “I heard banging and wailing—”

“Yes, Professor, that was the egg—”

“—I was coming to investigate—”

“—Peeves threw it, Professor—”

“—because I found my office with the torches lit and the door ajar! Somebody has been searching it!”

“But Peeves couldn’t—”

“I know he couldn’t!” Snape said. “I seal my office with a spell none but a wizard could break!”

_Clunk._

Harry froze.

_Clunk. Clunk._

Moody stepped out of a connecting corridor and glared up the two (possibly three) people in the stairs. Now Harry absolutely couldn’t get the Map out, not when that roving eye might see it.

“And who’d want to break into your office, eh, Snape?” Moody growled.

Snape glared down the stairs at him. Harry really hoped Snape could keep Moody occupied this time as effectively as he had been all year.

“A student, I daresay,” Snape said in the tight voice that he used when the Gryffindors in class were being especially unbearable but no one had given him an excuse to take points or self-esteem yet. “It has happened before. Potions ingredients have gone missing from my private store cupboard… students attempting illicit potions, no doubt…”

Harry smirked. Hermione had apologized and made an effort to change and he’d forgiven (if not forgotten) the Polyjuice incident from second year and he could now look back on it and be damn impressed she’d brewed Polyjuice at twelve years old. If only Snape knew.

“Reckon they were after potions ingredients, do you?” Moody said. “Not hiding anything else in your office people might want?”

Snape turned a nasty brick color in the firelight. “You know I’m hiding nothing, Moody, as you’ve searched my office pretty thoroughly yourself.”

“Auror’s privilege.” Moody sounded like he was smiling as he stumped closer to the people on the stairs. “Dumbledore told me to keep an eye—”

“Dumbledore trusts me!” Snape said through gritted teeth. Harry could hear the sudden fury in his voice. “I refuse to believe he gave you orders to search my office!”

“If you’re so convinced he wouldn’t, why haven’t you asked him?” Moody taunted. “And of course he trusts you, he’s a trusting man, isn’t he? Believes in second chances. But me—I say there are spots that don’t come off, Snape, if you know what I mean.”

Snape compulsively seized his left forearm. He let it go as soon as he’d grabbed it, but—the damage was done.

Harry put the pieces together and stifled a gasp. It made so much _sense_.

The Mark had gone on Death Eaters’ left forearms. Snape had been a Death Eater, and repented. Dumbledore offered him a second chance in exchange for—information, probably. Information for safety, and a reprieve from Azkaban. Protection. Which was why Snape had spent thirteen years teaching here; he was in no way cut out to be a professor but Dumbledore wanted him close and watched and controlled, Dumbledore wanted to be able to keep manipulating him and keep him isolated. Snape, alone, bitter, friendless, reliant on Dumbledore for a job and to keep his secret. If it got out he’d been a Death Eater he’d be persecuted and driven out of England even if Dumbledore had gotten him cleared. And Moody—Moody the pragmatist, Moody the paranoid, Moody the devoted Dark wizard catcher—he _hated_ Snape for walking free. 

No wonder Snape got so emotional and defensive when Moody suggested Dumbledore didn’t trust him.

Moody, meanwhile, _laughed_. “Get back to bed, Snape.”

“You don’t have the authority to send me anywhere!” Snape looked about half a sentence away from drawing his wand. “I have as much right to prowl this school at night as you do!”

“Prowl away, Snape,” Moody said menacingly. “I look forward to catching you in a dark corridor some time…”

They stared at each other for several more seconds in the flickering torchlight; Harry wished they’d get their posturing over with and move on before anyone saw him—

“I think I’ll go back to bed,” Snape said curtly.

“Best idea you’ve had all night,” Moody said. “Now, Filch, if you’ll just hand over that egg—”

“No!” Filch shrieked. “It’s evidence of Peeves’ treachery!”

“It’s the property of the champion he stole it from,” Moody said. “Hand it over, now.”

Snape swept down the stairs and back towards the dungeons. Harry pressed himself back into his shadowy pocket and prayed Moody’s eyes would stay fixed on Snape’s retreating back.

Another set of foosteps retreated. A door slammed.

“You can come out now, Potter,” Moody said.

A rustle as Jules shucked off the Invisibility Cloak.

 _“Both_ of you.”

Shit.

Harry muttered a _finite_ and stepped out of his hiding spot, face carefully blank. “Good evening, Professor Moody, Jules.”

“What are _you_ doing here?” Jules said.

Moody helped him out of the trick step, magical eye fixed down the stairs on Harry. “Get up here, Potter elder, I don’t want to shout…”

Harry climbed the steps obediently, stopping four below Moody. He didn’t like letting Moody have the high ground but the staircase was too narrow for him to comfortably climb to the same level as Moody and Jules. He’d take giving Moody a height advantage if it meant staying out of his reach.

“I was out for a walk,” he said. “I get insomnia sometimes, and I needed to think about the second task.” If Moody let Jules off for wandering around dealing with the egg clue, he couldn’t take points off Harry for the same thing and there was no way Dumbledore’s attack dog would dock points off the Boy Who Lived.

“Insomnia?” Jules blurted. “I never…”

Harry counted to three before he answered. “You’d have laughed at me for it, Jules, of course I never brought it up.”

“I would not,” Jules protested.

Harry looked at him flatly.

Jules blushed. “Fine, I might—but—not if you explained… why _do_ you get insomnia?”

“Surely you know enough about my childhood by now to draw your own conclusions,” Harry said tiredly. _“Anyway_ , I heard the noise when you dropped your egg and came to see what was going on… and then I couldn’t slip away without someone noticing me.”

“Hmph,” Moody said, magical eye flicking between them. “Did you happen to see who was creeping around in Snape’s office, then?”

“One of the castle snakes said it was Bartemius Crouch,” Harry said, watching both of them closely. The information about Crouch, and then about him using his Parseltongue, would get _some_ reactions. He wanted to know what.

Moody’s eye suddenly began whizzing around. “Crouch, you said?” he said. “You’re—you’re sure, Potter?”

“She could’ve been wrong,” Harry said. “She’s only a snake, after all…”

“How many snakes are in the castle?” Jules said, looking uneasy.

Harry decided to take pity on him. “Not many, and they mostly sleep in the dungeons. Safer down there—fewer feet to step on them. They like the castle’s magic.”

“Huh,” Jules said. “And you… talk to them?”

“Mostly about mice and how annoying winter is,” Harry said. “They’re not very imaginative.”

Jules, impossibly, cracked a grin.

“Touching,” Moody growled. “Crouch… I wonder…”

“Er… Professor Moody…” Jules said hesitantly. “Why d’you reckon Crouch would go creeping around Snape’s office?”

Harry thought he knew _exactly_ why.

Moody’s eye fixed on Jules, who shifted uncomfortably.

“Put it this way,” Moody said. “They say old Mad-Eye’s obsessed with catching Dark wizards… but I’m nothing— _nothing—_ compared to Barty Crouch.”

“Professor Moody,” Jules said again, “d’you think… could this have anything to do with… maybe Mr. Crouch thinks there’s something going on…”

“Like what?” Moody said sharply.

Harry gave Jules a considering look. His brother was cleverer than Harry gave him credit for if he was picking up on the shifting currents of things bigger than them. “All the strange things going on lately,” he said. “That’s what you mean, right, Jules? The Dark Mark at the Cup, people in Death Eater masks, our names coming out of the Goblet…”

“Exactly,” Jules said. “It’s… well, I mean, it feels… like things are starting to happen, doesn’t it?”

“You’re both sharp boys,” Moody said slowly. “It’s very possible… there have been some funny rumors lately… helped along by Rita Skeeter, of course, but still… I reckon it’s making a lot of people nervous.”

“Can we—er—can we go back to our dorms now?” Jules said.

Moody seemed to rouse himself with a jolt. “Ah—yes, of course. Incidentally—you weren’t taking that egg for a walk, were you, Potter?”

“Nope,” Jules said with his usual cocky grin. “I’ve been working on the clue.”

“Because I told you how to figure it out,” Harry sighed.

Jules amiably flipped him off. “Prat.”

“Idiot,” Harry said, with less bite than usual. “ _Hogwarts, A History_ talks about what’s in the lake.”

“ _That’s_ why Hermione dumped a copy in front of me this morning,” Jules muttered.

Moody glared. “Both of you, off to bed, before I remember that I caught two students breaking curfew.”

“Of course, Professor,” Harry said contritely. “Your temporary amnesia is appreciated.”

Jules grinned. “Thanks, Professor Moody.”

 

 _“Mariko,”_ Harry said, as soon as he was safely back in the dungeons.

The snake appeared almost instantly from some invisible crack in the stone. _“Yes.”_

 _“Arrange for some of the snakes to watch the man with the magical eye and one wooden leg,”_ Harry said. _“Just… in general. I don’t trust him.”_

 _“As you will_ ,” Mariko said. _“He is a predator, Speaker.”_

 _“Yeah. I know.”_ Harry glanced up at the ceiling, wondering if Moody’s magic eye could see through all the stone and down into the dungeons. He hoped not. The Slytherin dorm wards should keep his sight out, but Harry wasn’t back there yet. At least the crazy Auror would never be able to decipher Parseltongue, even if he could read lips, which he probably did.

 

“Transfiguration.”

“What?”

Harry grinned at his friends. Minus Viktor, Timur, and Niklas, they were sprawled around the Knights Room working on various homework assignments. “Transfiguration. I’ll give myself gills and turn my socks into Muggle swim fins and warm myself from inside out with wandless magic like usual.”

“Self-transfiguration’s a really advanced skill,” Hermione said nervously. “You could leave yourself unable to breathe at _all…”_

“I did it fine last night,” Harry said. “I’ve still got all of February to practice and make sure I can do it consistently—but it worked. I breathed in the Slytherin bathtub for an hour.”

“Adrian was pissed you took it up for that long,” Blaise said idly.

“Adrian can deal with it,” Harry said, throwing himself happily into his favorite chair.

“Jules thinks Snape’s the one who’s trying to kill you two,” Neville said. “Overheard him talking to Ron and Seamus.”

“They thought it was Snape in first year, too,” Hermione said.

“I pointed that out,” Neville said. “Ron got mad, I called him an idiot and told him to let the adults handle it, he tried to get me with a _Leg-Locker_.”

“A Leg-Locker?” Justin said incredulously.

“It was insulting.” Neville blushed. “So I Stunned him.”

“Yes!” Pansy cheered, laughing.

“I wish I could’ve seen the idiot’s face,” Daphne said. 

“I still don’t think Seamus has recovered from the shock that Neville can cast that spell,” Hermione said with a little smile.

Neville shrugged awkwardly. “They keep underestimating me…”

“Nice job using your dueling club skills,” Theo said, setting aside the porcelain he was working on for McGonagall’s class to give Neville a high five.

“I don’t care what Jules is plotting,” Harry told Hermione. “Moody and Snape and Karkaroff can play their games and eventually someone will slip up and they’ll toss whoever’s trying to do us in to the dementors.” He shrugged. “I’ll work on surviving first.”

 

_“Speaker?”_

Harry almost tripped over Izzi, one of the castle’s younger snakes. _“Izzi, hi.”_

_“Mariko said to tell you we can’t get into the one-eyed wizard’s rooms.”_

_“Are they warded?”_

Izzi hesitated. _“There is magic keeping us out.”_

_“That’s wards. Can other animals get in? Mice, rats?”_

_“Yes. I almost caught a mouse yesterday but it escaped where I couldn’t follow.”_

Izzi flicked her tail angrily, but Harry frowned. Less than a week after he’d had to mention his association with the castle snakes, and Moody had warded his rooms against them.

 _“Keep following him around the castle,”_ he said finally.

 _“As you will_ ,” Izzi said.

 _“Here.”_ Harry dug some Cockroach Cluster out of his pocket and set it on the ground; she barely paused to thank him before lunging at it.

 _“Do you think he’s hiding something?”_ Eriss asked as Harry walked away.

He shrugged. _“He might just be paranoid. Thing is, paranoia is a great cover story if he_ does _have something to hide. I don’t trust him.”_

 _“Mariko was right,”_ Eriss said. _“He is a predator.”_

 

He took a break from his swimming lessons, studying, and spell practice for breathing underwater and surviving the assorted horrors of the Black Lake to take Daphne to Hogsmeade for Valentine’s Day. How a Muggle saint’s holiday got attached to wizarding culture he had no idea but it was a good excuse to wander around hand in hand while window shopping, catch fudge flies in his mouth as Daphne threw them at him, brush snow out of her hair, and then kiss her cold lips behind Zonko’s for fifteen minutes before they had to run from one of the workers.

Ginny Weasley and Noah Bole went as a couple. Harry considered warning Noah to be careful with a girl two years younger but decided against it when he saw the fifth year staring at Ginny with a combination of affection, awe, and nervousness. Even when Ronald fumed at them from across the Three Broomsticks, Ginny stubbornly ignored him.

Blaise and Iris disappeared into the woods for an hour and came back with messed-up hair and matching smirks.

It felt amazing to forget everything going on and pretend to be a normal teenager for a day. Unfortunately, the books strewn across his bed, open to spells and stories about water creatures and lore about what lived in the lake, plus Eriss sleeping on his pillow, destroyed the illusion quite thoroughly as soon as he got home.

 _“I hate my life sometimes,”_ Harry complained, cracking the text on giant squids with a sigh.

 _“Impossible,”_ Eriss said sleepily. _“I’m in it.”_

 

February twenty-fourth dawned blustery and gray but fortunately not precipitating. Harry’s stomach roiled and the thought of food made him nauseous, but Daphne stuck her wand in his face and told him flatly to eat. Having seen her hurl curses in dueling club and their illicit practices, he resigned himself to forcing down a piece of toast and some scrambled eggs. It tasted like cardboard and he couldn’t tear his thoughts away from the looming task.

“Where’s Theo?” Blaise said. “Shouldn’t he be making a crack about who wears the trousers in this relationship or something?”

Harry looked around and realized for the first time his best friend wasn’t just unusually quiet; he was _missing_. That was concerning.

“Maybe he’s just taking a while in the showers,” Malfoy said doubtfully.

Blaise shook his head. “He wasn’t in bed when I got up, I thought he’d be up here.”

“You didn’t _notice?”_ Pansy said to Harry, exasperated.

“I’m a touch distracted,” he said, stabbing viciously at his eggs with a fork.

Daphne frowned. “It’s nearly nine, you should get going down to the lake.”

“This is fucking stupid,” Harry snarled into his plate. “The _Black Lake_ in _February_. Do you even know what kind of shit lives down there?”

“Yes, actually, we’ve been helping you research it for a month,” Pansy said. “Hurry up.”

He slipped Neville the Portkeys instead of Theo with no explanation. Neville was clever enough to guess what they were and keep them safe like Harry asked him to in the few seconds he had before the champions were whisked away from the post-breakfast crowd.

The lake was steel gray and uninviting, nearly the exact same color as the clouds above. Harry walked around it and did his best to ignore the full-to-bursting stands that had been erected on the side farthest from the castle. The whole school was up there plus the visitors from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons. All watching him.

Daphne hugged him goodbye, and Pansy restrained herself with a wink, and Blaise clapped him on the shoulder and mostly hid his worry, and Justin and Neville assured him he’d do great, and Luna said something vague about lakeweed Harry didn’t have the mental energy to try and interpret, and Malfoy wished him strained but seemingly sincere good luck. Hermione was nowhere to be seen, as was Theo.

“He might be saving us seats or something,” Justin said. No one pointed out that Theo could’ve written in their journals, and in fact had not responded to any of the messages they’d left for him.

Harry turned his back first so he wouldn’t see them walk away.

“Haf you seen Herm-own-inny?” Viktor said in a low voice when Harry joined him and Delacour on a new dock that extended out over the lake.

“…no,” Harry said. “We thought she’d have been with you, actually. And… I can’t find Theo.”

“I haf a bad feeling,” Viktor muttered.

Harry did, too, and only half of it was his missing friends. The other half came from his lingering fear of water and swimming. He could make himself zip around underwater and had tested it by exploring the Black Lake already, gills working and fins on his feet and eyes enchanted to see in the dark, but that didn’t mean he was comfortable.

Delacour ignored them both in favor of staring at the water like it had done her a personal disservice.

Harry twirled his wand around his fingers and barely noticed the way Dumbledore’s attention seemed to linger unhappily on the movement.

Diggory joined them at five past.

Ludo Bagman paced up and down the dock, spitting jovial platitudes with decreasing sincerity as the time ticked by and Jules didn’t show up.

The other judges waited quietly behind a table draped in gold. Madame Maxime sipped at a glass of golden liquid. Karkaroff glowered at everyone. Dumbledore literally twiddled his thumbs. Percy was yet again standing in for the absent Crouch, which made Harry wonder just how Crouch had the energy to sneak into Hogwarts and search Snape’s office but not show up for the Tournament he was supposedly officiating.

At nine twenty-five, a small figure sprinted out of the front doors of the castle. Harry sighed.

“I do not unnerstand ‘ow you two are related,” Delacour sniffed.

Harry watched Jules book it around the edge of the lake. “Me neither.”

Jules skidded to a halt with them at nine twenty-seven, spattering mud on Delacour’s robes. “I’m… here…” he panted.

“Where have you been?” Percy said disapprovingly. “The task’s about to start!”

“Now, now, Percy,” Bagman said. “Let him catch his breath!”

Dumbledore, predictably, smiled at his protégé, but Karkaroff and Maxime looked unhappy. Probably they’d been hoping Jules wouldn’t show.

Jules bent over and breathed heavily. Harry eyed his hair, which was always a mess but currently was reaching _fell asleep somewhere awkward and just woke up_ levels of disastrous. Bagman moved along the line of champions, spacing them out at ten-foot intervals along the dock, leaving Jules for last. Harry looked at Diggory on his left and Viktor on his right and sank into an Occlumency trance.

 _“Sonorous!”_ Bagman said.

His augmented voice boomed over the water. “Witches and wizards, welcome to the second task of this year’s Triwizard Tournament!”

Deafening applause.

“Each of these champions has had something precious taken from them! Something they would be devastated to lose! They have precisely one hour to retrieve what has been lost. On my mark… three… two… one… _Mark!”_

The whistle echoed shrilly.

Harry kicked his shoes off and pointed his wand at his feet. _“Commuto_ ,” he said, concentrating fiercely and imposing his will on the spell. Cotton socks turned to rubber that fit tightly onto his feet, and lengthened into rigid ribs with rubber membranes strung between them. It would’ve been better to change his feet into webbed fins but he wasn’t good enough at self-transfiguration to pull that off; it had taken this entire time to get the gills one down.

He changed his eyes next, and the scene lightened slightly.

Delacour and Diggory were in the water already, as was Jules. Viktor was also doing some kind of self-transfiguration.

Harry took a deep breath and held it—he wouldn’t be able to breathe again until he was done casting and in the water.

He whispered the incantation for the gills.

His neck began to itch fiercely. His skin crawled. A horrible tight, cottony, choked feeling formed in his throat as his trachea stopped working.

Harry looked at the water, forced back a momentary paralysis, and dove forward off the dock.

According to the twins, his dives were ugly but functional. Harry didn’t especially care whether people thought he could be on the Chinese synchronized diving team. He just needed to get into the water before his common sense took over and he chickened out.

The first moment was always the hardest. Harry had to forcibly override his body’s instinctive rejection of the water. It slid cool and lethal down his throat and he almost, _almost_ choked, but his complicated self-transfiguration had turned his lungs into a MacGyvered hodgepodge of biology and magic that could extract enough oxygen from water to power a human body. Harry took three deep breaths to adjust and started swimming.

To his right, Viktor hit the water with a muted splash. His head was now that of a slightly shrunken great white shark. They locked eyes for a long moment and then Viktor nodded curtly and took off, using some kind of spell to propel himself through the water.

Harry swam in a different direction.

The water was icy cold. He knew the human body didn’t last an hour in forty degree water and it’d be colder than that in the depths of the Black Lake. Harry called on his magic as he swam and warmed himself from the inside, concentrating on his core and his blood vessels.

Harry swam out, recognizing certain landmarks from his tentative explorations. A wide mud plain littered with dull stones stretched out beneath him for at least five minutes. The drop-off on the far side of it was as unnerving as the other three times he’d swum out this far.

“Fuck this,” Harry gurgled, and flipped over, diving straight down.

He knew there was a forest of lakeweed waiting for him at the bottom, thick, ropy black weeds of an indeterminate height subsisting on desperation and very little sunlight. He’d brought back samples Neville and Theo identified as harmless but extremely hardy keshel weed that was a favorite food of grindylows. The water was eerie and badly lit; even his augmented eyes couldn’t pierce more than twenty feet through it in any direction. Fish flickered past him like silver scaly darts. He swam over the keshel forest and kept an eye out for movement. Several times he saw something flicker in his peripheral vision but by the time he looked it was gone. Harry was quite certain he was being watched.

The flickers of movement continued but never got any closer. It was maddening and distracting and kept him horribly on edge and he didn’t even notice the grindylows hunting him until two of them shot up out of the keshel forest and grabbed his ankles.

Harry let out an incoherent yell and twisted. The water slowed his wand movements and they had him almost submerged in the weeds before he got a line of fire and started shooting _relashio_ at them.

The first two grindylows shrieked and let go. Four more zipped in out of nowhere, faster and more maneuverable.

Lips twisted, Harry switched to _os fractus._

Seven grindylows were left shrieking in pain and nursing shattered sections of their skeletons when they finally took the hint and backed off him. Harry hit the last one in the head with the curse and it appeared to be dying while the others flittered impotently around. He waited, heart and adrenaline pounding, in case they came back for round two, but with a last fearful glare, they sank back into the weeds.

“Suck it,” he said, and kept on swimming.

The keshel forest ended. When Harry flipped over on his back and looked up, the glimmer of light on the surface was very distant, almost invisible. Somehow he was more comfortable down here in the water than he’d ever been on the surface; down here he had his magic and an idea of what to face and there was no one around to try to drown him.

A slimy muddy landscape replaced the keshel forest, littered with strange slimy worm-things that gleamed pale and exuded pure malevolence. Harry watched one of them propel itself up a meter above the lake floor with a jet of water and latch the other end onto a fish. The fist got dragged down to the mud, thrashing, where a half-dozen worms piled on top of it. Thirty seconds later, the fish was gone.

Harry resolved to stay a good four meters above the lake floor at all times.

He warded off a pack of fish trailing purplish goo and baring fangs he didn’t want to test by boiling the water between him and them. It made things uncomfortably warm for a moment until he kicked back and away. The fish died or fled. He watched their corpses trail the bubbles of water vapor up toward the surface and kept moving.

The flickers of movement kept shadowing him. Harry put up a proximity ward tied to his wand that would let him know if anything big came within thirty feet of him.

Strange shapes loomed out of the ground at him and resolved themselves into logs or boulders or curves and dips in the landscape. Harry avoided a big gulch that fell into absolute darkness about a meter down.

He flinched at the thing that appeared on his left side, and whipped his wand around, but it was only some kind of water snake. Rippling fins lined both sides of its body, narrowing by the tail, and it moved with a sinuous up-and-down sort of movement. It was a flash of bright green in the gloom of the lake.

Harry and the snake eyed one another for a few seconds, both of them wary and circling. One a smaller native predator, the other a predator from another world, out of his element but still dangerous.

 _“Do you understand me?”_ Harry hissed. He wasn’t sure if Parseltongue would work on this snake, or if speaking by exhaling water would even work—

The snake’s entire body rippled with its surprise. _“You are the Speaker I have heard of in the stone air-den.”_   

“ _I am.”_

_“What are you doing interrupting my hunt? This is not your territory, Speaker.”_

_“I’m aware_ ,” Harry muttered. _“I was forced into a stupid competition and apparently they’ve stolen something from me that I need to get back.”_

 _“The merpeople have hibernating two-leg air-breathers in their city,”_ the snake said.

Harry’s entire body went colder than the bottoms of the lake, magic be damned. _“They have… people? Humans?”_

Theo. Hermione. The thing he’d miss most—it wasn’t his broom or his trunk or one of his books, it was his _best friend_.

 _“Five,”_ the snake said.

 _“The castle snakes do as I command, as Heir,”_ Harry said. _“Does the bond between the Heir of Slytherin in Hogwarts and the castle snakes extend to you?”_

The snake flicked its tail. _“Yes. Do you need to know the way?”_

 _“Yes,”_ Harry said. _“Lead me there.”_

The snake took off through the water. Harr had to scramble a bit to catch up, but then they settled into a brisk, even pace. Harry thought the flickers of movement increased in his peripheral vision. His adrenaline increased even though he’d thought he’d already had as much adrenaline in his system as it could handle at once.

At first, the song was subliminal. He couldn’t have said what was making him so unnerved… only that _something_ was. And then he could actually sift the melody out of the immense weight of the water, and then he could hear the words as an indistinct overlay, and then he could make out the lyrics themselves.

_“An hour long you’ll have to look, To recover what we took…”_

It was a stupid bloody concept. Now that he knew they’d taken _people_ (made his friends unconscious and left them at the bottom of the Black Lake) there was no way their targets would actually be lost. The whole song was clearly just a ploy to up the stakes for the champions. The champions themselves could die, but their friends? As collateral damage? No way would that stand.

 _“There,”_ the snake said. Harry kicked forward another two meters and saw why his guide had stopped: a massive boulder, lodged deep in the lake floor and covered in paintings of merpeople carrying spears and chasing the giant squid.

 _“This is mer territory,”_ the snake said. _“They don’t like snakes much, we remind them of miniature squid. I leave you. Follow the song.”_

 _“Thank you,”_ Harry said. _“What do you eat?”_

The snake’s tongue flickered; unlike a land snake, this one had five forks, each twisting and testing in different directions. _“Fish.”_

Harry flicked his wand and murmured the incantation for a finding charm.

 _“There is a large school of silvery fish that way,”_ he said, pointing. _“Maybe five minutes’ swimming.”_

 _“Thank you, Speaker,”_ the snake said, tail already twitching. _“The… regard… the castle snakes harbor for you makes more sense now.”_

Harry watched his guide disappear into the gloom before he took off after the music.

A cluster of crude domed stone dwellings appeared around him quite suddenly. Each one was stained with algae and seemed more designed to provide privacy than anything else. Faces lurked behind openings in the stone, each one familiar from Harry’s research: grayish skin, long wild green hair, ropes of pebbles around their necks that in some incredibly convoluted way coded for their place in the social hierarchy of their clan.

_“Your time’s half gone, so tarry not, lest what you seek stays here to rot…”_

“What utter rubbish,” Harry muttered. It came out an indistinct gurgle.

Several of the merpeople emerged from their dwellings to watch him. Powerful silver fish tails kept them steady in the water. Harry nodded respectfully to the ones who were clearly guards, armed with tridents and wearing arm guards of some kind of shimmery shell. He was infringing on their territory and it would be one of the stupider options available to him to piss them off. He also catalogued the way their eyes nervously followed the wand in his hand. Diggory had made it very clear at the Cup that sentient nonwizards were not permitted wands; even if merpeople had the ability to perform wand magic, they clearly had no clue how. He bit the inside of his lip and then stowed his wand in his holster, thought it made him _extremely_ nervous.

The dwellings got more numerous as he went on, following the music; intricate and eerily beautiful gardens of gray-green underwater plants swayed in small currents, and he saw a pet grindylow tied outside one stone hut. Merpeople darted through the water with familiar quick movements; he realized they must have been shadowing him the whole time. They whispered behind their hands to one another and watched him.

He curved his body and swam around a corner and backpedaled abruptly.

It looked to be something like a village square. A crowd of merpeople drifted around the edges. Off to one side, a choir sang the creepy beautiful music that had drawn him here. The merman statue beyond them was frightening in a pagan sort of way—it had a rough-hewn look that reminded Harry of things that had been around longer than humans, things tied more closely to magic than wizards ever would be, things that anyone with sense would actively avoid. And to its tail were tied four people.

Harry eased closer, keeping a sharp eye on all sides for any movement. The guards’ spears and tridents looked _very_ sharp. But no one moved to stop him, even as he reached out and closed his hand around the kelp rope tied around Theo’s ankles.

He shot a quick look over the other three. Cho Chang—that’d be Diggory’s person. Ronald, undoubtedly, was Jules’. The tiny girl with silver hair had to be related to Delacour, and the cut rope at the far end of the line of people must have belonged to Viktor’s captive.

A quick scan of the merpeople around him was enough to pick out the leader. Harry swam her direction and stopped a respectful distance away, managing a sort of awkward half-bow in the water. “Are you the Chieftaness?” he said, remembering his brief excursion into mer society.

“I am,” the old and wary merwoman said.

“Are you here to stop my retreat?”

The merwoman smiled; her mouth was full of very sharp teeth. “Not so long as you take only your captive.”

That was easy, then.

A sudden stir in the crowd froze Harry halfway back to Theo. He tensed and pulled his wand, ignoring how the nearby merpeople shied away. If this was—some kind of attack or challenge on the way—the merwoman never said nothing _else_ would try to stop them from taking their captives back—

But it was only Jules, shooting around the same corner Harry had and rocketing straight for the captives without so much as a pause to look at the situation.

_Bloody fucking Gryffindors._

Harry met his brother at the captives and sliced Theo’s rope with a _diffindo_. He glanced back once at Jules—

“Why are you waiting?” Harry yelled.

Jules made a confused face and waved his hands around at all the other captives.

“They won’t be hurt,” Harry said. “It’s a lie! To raise the stakes! They’re not going to let uninvolved kids _die—_ ”

But he could barely understand himself and Jules made increasingly angry and confused faces. Harry beckoned him on. Jules flipped him off and turned angrily away.

Well, it wasn’t Harry’s problem if Jules wanted to be an idiot, so he turned around and kicked hard for the surface. A quick _tempus_ cast on the way told him the others still had eleven minutes to get their captives and make it out under the time. Hopefully Diggory and Delacour would show up and Jules would grow a brain.

Harry pointed his wand at himself and wrapped his left arm very firmly around Theo’s deadweight. _“Ascendere_ ,” he said.

The spell yanked him upwards like a cork on a string. Water rushed over him and Theo dragged on his arm; Harry tightened his grip and hung on.

They burst through the surface. Harry canceled the spell with a flick just as his waist cleared the water and he and Theo crashed back down.

Theo began coughing and splashing wildly. “It’s fucking cold out here!” he yelled.

Harry’s entire chest seized as his hodgepodge transfiguration work complained about being subjected to air. He let himself sink back under the water before he grabbed one of Theo’s flailing ankles and pumped magical warmth into his friend.

Theo’s “Thanks” filtered, distorted, down into the water. Harry stuck a thumbs up out of the water and then pointed at the dock.

“Right,” Theo said, and started swimming.

He was so much slower that Harry got annoyed and transfigured Theo’s shoes into flippers. Things went easier after that.

They were one minute inside the time limit when Theo scrambled out of the water. Hands reached in but Harry slapped them away and hung onto the underwater part of the ladder to stabilize himself while he started the even more complicated job of returning his body to its normal state.

He wondered if it would be possible to build a permanent transfiguration into his circulatory system so that the act of breathing in water would activate the change to a water-processing set of lungs and gills. Or if he could combine aspects of both and have one circulatory system that worked just as easily in one as the other.

The tight feeling faded from his throat and his neck stopped itching and felt weirdly cold and sensitive where the gills had been. Harry kicked to the surface with a gasp.

Only after Theo and Daphne dragged him out of the water and Pomfrey dragged him into a tent and threw a blanket around his shoulders and forced a block of chocolate into his hands did Harry let himself break down.

Daphne knew him and she didn’t try to hold him while he buried his face in his knees and shook with the force of the terror he’d been holding back this whole time. She sat next to him and Blaise waited patiently and Theo leaned on a pole by the tent-flap, keeping an eye on the situation out on the platform.

When Harry’s shaking abated and he thought he had himself under control, he lifted his dry face. “Thanks,” he said hoarsely, uncurling limbs tight from tension and fear.

“Good job,” Blaise said. “You were only five minutes after Viktor, and you were inside the time lim—”

“What the _hell_ ,” Theo said, staring outside.

“It’s Jules, isn’t it,” Harry said flatly.

“Isn’t it always?” Blaise said.

Daphne took Harry’s hand and laced their fingers together. He almost shied away from the contact but he made himself look at her slim fingers and think about how it kind of felt nice once he got past his initial jerk and gradually relaxed.

“He just popped out of the water with Weasley, Chang, _and_ the French girl’s sister,” Theo said, rolling his eyes. “And he’s got a bloody honor guard of merpeople following him along, singing.”

“He got there right after I did, but he wouldn’t leave the other captives,” Harry said. “I should’ve known he’d do something idiotic.”

Considering himself as stable as he was going to get right now, Harry stood up, still holding Daphne’s hand, and the four of them filed out of the tent.

Pansy skipped up to them almost instantly, a pleased smirk on her face. “He thought they were actually going to die,” she said gleefully. “Even _Weasley’s_ right pissed at him for it. Diggory’s on his way back; the merpeople had to send someone out to look for him. Apparently Delacour realized this morning it was her sister they took and she lost it when she showed up to an empty village. They hauled her out straight into a different med-tent.”

“How do you _do_ that?” Justin demanded. He and Malfoy had elbowed their way out of the jostling crowd on the bottom platform and ducked the wooden barrier keeping the champions separate. “Just… know all this stuff.”

“She’s creepy,” Malfoy said.

“I’m _brilliant_ , thank you,” Pansy said.

“Who was… _oh_.”

This was because Harry had turned and seen the answer to his question even as he asked it: Viktor Krum, brushing a beetle out of Hermione’s soaking wet hair and talking to her softly.

“That’s almost sad,” Daphne said. “Doesn’t he have anyone from Durmstrang?”

“Might’ve been convenience,” Justin said, looking like he didn’t really believe this.

 _“Gabrielle! Gabrielle! Where ees my seester_ —”

“Here we go,” Theo said with a look of anticipation on his face.

Delacour stumbled out of a tent with Pomfrey on her heels. She flatly ignored the mediwitch’s insistence that Delacour lie down and bolted as soon as she saw the small, shaking form of her sister, currently being comforted by two other Beauxbatons students. The little girl had looked up at the sound of her name and started crying just before Delacour slammed into her.

It was actually rather touching, Harry supposed. The steel Beauxbatons champion had a weakness and it was shaped like her ten-year-old sister. He filed that away.

Delacour’s face and arms were covered with small cuts but she batted Pomfrey away and insisted her sister be seen to first.

Ludo Bagman’s magically amplified voice boomed through the stadium just as Neville scrambled under the barrier; he jumped, tripped, and almost fell in the lake. Timur, close behind, caught him one-handed and set him upright while Niklas laughed.

“It seems the judges have reached a decision!” Bagman shouted. “Merchieftaness Murcus has revealed exactly what happened at the bottom of the lake, and we have therefore decided to award marks out of fifty to our five champions, as follows…

“Julian Potter used gillyweed to great effect, but returned well outside the time limit. However, we’re told he was the third to find the hostages and waited to make sure they would all be returned safely. We feel that as his delay was due to nobility, he has earned forty-three points.”

 _“What?”_ Theo said, though a hastily cast silencing charm from Daphne kept anyone from overhearing.

“Fleur Delacour demonstrated excellent use of the Bubble-Head Charm and reached the hostages just at the time limit with no major mishaps, but had a regrettable moment of panic upon finding her sister already missing. She had to be rescued by the merpeople. For this, we award her thirty-eight points.”

Harry did not miss the conflicted glare she shot Jules upon hearing her score. On the one hand, he’d rescued her sister. On the other, he’d been an idiot to think the hostages were in actual danger, and he might have cost her the Tournament, depending on the other scores.

“Cedric Diggory also used the Bubble-Head Charm to his advantage and reportedly reached the village only a few minutes after the time ran out. Finding his hostage gone, he inquired of the merpeople, who guided him back to us. We award him forty points.

“Hadrian Potter was the second to reach the hostages and returned to the judges with one minute remaining, having performed a tricky bit of self-transfiguration flawlessly. For this, we award him forty-nine points.”

“Should’ve been full marks,” Daphne snarled under her breath. Harry squeezed her hand.

 “And finally, Viktor Krum was first to return with his hostage. He used a self-transfiguration as well that was incomplete but nonetheless effective. For this, we award him forty-nine points.”

Harry bothered to clap for that one. Hermione left off her indignant muttering about Harry and Jules getting the same score to hug Viktor while Niklas, Timur, and a few other boys pounded him on the back.

“The third and final task will take place at dusk on the twenty-fourth of June,” Bagman continued. “The champions will be notified what is coming precisely one month beforehand. Thank you all for your support of the champions.”

Harry got through the celebrations and congratulations in a sort of daze and went to bed as soon as the Slytherin upper years were drunk enough not to notice him leaving. Daphne kissed him goodnight and he kissed back, but his heart wasn’t in it and she seemed to notice, stepping back with—not irritation or hurt, but something he didn’t feel like trying to parse. Pansy hugged him and Theo and Blaise wished him goodnight with looks of understand that cut him like knives and Malfoy watched him go with consternation and Harry couldn’t be bothered to deal with any of it.

He told Eriss about what happened in a monotone voice while she wound comfortingly around his neck and shoulders. _“The stupid silver-haired man gets stupider all the time.”_

 _“He really does_ ,” Harry agreed. _“I just… water, Eriss. I can’t…”_

 _“I will thank the water snakes,”_ Eriss decided. _“The castle snakes swim sometimes.”_

 _“Thank you,”_ Harry said.

Eriss flickered her tongue unhappily. “ _I wish I could have been there.”_

_“You know why it was impossible.”_

_“I know.”_ Eriss tightened her grip on him and Harry began to think he might actually be able to sleep at some point tonight. _“Someday you’ll be strong and I’ll be fast and we won’t have to hide.”_

Harry nodded slowly. Someday.

 

_Hermione_

“Hermione, apparently you’re cheating on Jules with Viktor,” Pansy said, turning the pages of _Witch Weekly._

Hermione stared at her. “I’m _what?”_

Pansy tossed her the magazine.

Hermione fumbled the catch, cursed her general lack of athletic ability outside of dueling club, and flipped through it to an article labeled _Julian Potter’s Secret Heartache._

Daphne snatched it out of her hands as soon as she looked up. Hermione couldn’t even process her astonishment. This was…

“ _Plain but ambitious_?” Daphne said incredulously. “Who does this cow think—oh, and now you’re _devious_ , too, and how charming, Lavender Brown is bitching about how ugly you are and suggesting you’d use a Love Potion on—as _if!”_ Daphne glared at the magazine. “As if you need a Love Potion!”

Hermione couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing.

Harry and Theo were off doing something unspeakable involving mice and experimental potions, but they had Blaise and Justin and Draco and Neville, and all four boys exchanged uneasy glances.

“Er,” Neville said. Sweet boy. “Hermione, you’re not—bothered?”

“Bothered?” Hermione said incredulously. A _bother_ was Binns’ inability to teach in a way that interested his students. A _bother_ was the Boy Who Lived-worshipping Gryffindors causing hell in the common room and disrupting her studying. A _bother_ was the wards on the Restricted Section. A _bother_ was her parents’ continued skepticism that her Hogwarts education would be of any value in the ‘real world’. “This doesn’t… no, this isn’t a _bother_. This article isn’t even Skeeter—she did the one about me and Viktor, but this other witch did the one about _Jules_ and me and Viktor.”

“Harry threatened her,” Blaise said, turning a page of his book. “Skeeter, I mean. To leave you alone. She must’ve decided reporting on you and Viktor was safe.”

“ _She_ doesn’t say anything nasty here,” Pansy noted.

“The other lady’s article might be a problem, though,” Daphne said. “Unfortunately, people are going to take offense at the idea of you playing with the Boy Who Lived’s heart.”

“Making a child into a Messiah was one of the stupider things this culture has ever done,” Hermione muttered. “I don’t really care what “people” think of me. Especially strangers.”

Pansy shrugged and turned a few pages in the magazine. “It’s not like they can do much to her except write nasty mail, and we’ve been working on the vanishing spell lately. What do you think of this?” She turned the page to show Hermione and Daphne a fashion spread.

“Bit gaudy,” Hermione said.

“Far too many sequins,” Daphne agreed.

Ten minutes later, Hermione’s subconscious turned up something actually interesting from Rita’s article. “How did she know?” she blurted.

“What?” Draco frowned.

“Rita,” Hermione said. “How did she know Viktor asked me to visit him over the summer?”

Blaise smirked at her. “Why, Hermione, are you sure that accusation of deviousness was so far off the mark?”

Hermione made a face at him. Ridiculous flirt. “He asked me right after we were hauled out of the lake,” she explained. “And after he’d got rid of the shark’s head.”

“Good transfiguration but not really something you’d want to kiss,” Pansy agreed.

Hermione felt herself blushing and scowled. Viktor had kissed her _twice_ , chastely, and never pushed for more even though… even though she saw how he looked at her sometimes. She’d be lying if she said him being eighteen didn’t make her a bit nervous… but he’d not shown a sign of ever being less than perfectly courteous and the second he did she would hex his testicles into shriveled raisins. And… he was attractive. She’d liked kissing him.

“Someone’s got a se-cret,” Daphne singsonged.

Justin kicked her. Thank Morgana for Hufflepuffs. “Leave off Hermione unless you’d rather we start interrogating you on where you and Harry sneaked off to last week after Astronomy.”

Daphne turned a vicious glare on him. Justin was unperturbed. Draco smirked.

Hermione’s friends were ridiculous.

“And he _did_ say he’d never—never felt this way for anyone else,” Hermione added, her blush getting so fierce she thought they could probably feel the heat waves coming off her face. “But I’ve no idea how Skeeter could’ve overheard. She wasn’t there—unless maybe she’s got an Invisibility Cloak and she sneaked onto the grounds…?”

“Well, _are_ you going to visit him?” Draco said.

Hermione frowned at him. He was doing the thing Harry did sometimes where he pretended so hard to be uninterested that he made it clear he actually _was_ interested, except he was a lot less subtle than Harry about it. “I haven’t decided yet.”

 

_Harry_

A conversation with Sirius resulted in using Ginny to send a letter to Percy asking if he’d seen Crouch lately. Pansy traded her a minor favor for it and Ginny shrugged and asked if she could borrow Alekta because she hadn’t yet bought an owl, fearing her mother’s suspicion about where the money came from.

 

_HG_

_I’m going down to the kitchens to talk to Winky. If anyone would like to see if you can get any more out of her re: the Crouch secrets, meet me there in 15 minutes._

_TN_

_Why do you always write so formally?_

_HG_

_Unlike some of you, I never let myself slip into lazy habits._

_PP_

_Oh no, you said “let” instead of “allow”! Our lazy habits are rubbing off on you! Call a mediwitch!_

_HP_

_I’ll meet you there, Hermione._

Blaise and Daphne and, for some inexplicable reason, Malfoy decided to accompany Harry to the kitchens. The four of them argued about the ongoing betting pool regarding the third task (options varied from facing a nundu to crossing the Himalayas wandless and with nothing but your clothes) until they found the bushy-haired Gryffindor bouncing impatiently by the pear painting.

“Took you long enough,” she said, already tickling the painting.

“It’s been eleven minutes,” Malfoy said. “You said fifteen.”

“I had farther to travel and I _still_ beat you all here, which tells me you could’ve been moving faster. Come on.”

Malfoy jumped through the door on her heels. They bickered their way all the way across the kitchens while absentmindedly fending off house-elves’ efforts to feed them.

“If she wasn’t dating Viktor…” Daphne muttered.

“They’ll have snogged by next Yule,” Blaise predicted.

Daphne shook her head. “Five galleons says it takes longer than that.”

“Done.”

“I thought gambling was beneath you?” Harry interjected, smirking when Blaise momentarily faltered.

 “Can we be getting you anything, sirs and miss?” one of the elves squeaked.

Blaise took the distraction. “Pumpkin juice, please? And a scone if you’ve got any.”

“Yes, sir!” The elf scurried away.

They found Winky by the hearth again, attended by an anxious, nervous Dobby.

“Well, shit,” Harry said. “She’s gotten worse.”

The elf was so dirty that she was not immediately distinguishable from the soot-blackened stone behind her. She clutched a bottle of butterbeer and hiccupped.

“Is she drunk?” Blaise said. “I thought that stuff had no alcohol.”

“Very small amount, sir,” Dobby said, wringing his hands. “Not enough to be getting wizards and witches drunk, sir, but for a house-elf, ‘tis very strong.”

Three elves zipped over with a platter of scones and several goblets of pumpkin juice, all of them shooting Winky disapproving looks as they returned to work.

“This is a mess,” Malfoy muttered.

Harry squinted at him. “That’s your elf, Malfoy.”

“That’s—what?” Malfoy switched to staring at Dobby. “I… Merlin, it _is_. We sold him to _Hogwarts?”_

“No, Dobby is not being sold!” Dobby squealed, staring at Malfoy with a sort of terrified defiance. “Dobby is _free!”_

“Free?” Malfoy’s brain appeared to be short-circuiting. “An elf… that wants… how?”

Harry bit back laughter at the look on his face. Daphne wasn’t even trying to hide her sneering amusement. “Oh, it’s a funny story,” he said. “Hermione, why don’t you tell it? Since you had a front-row seat to Jules telling half of Gryffindor.”

“He tricked your father,” Hermione said, eyeing Malfoy. “Second year. Handed him a filthy sock after the whole incident in the Chamber and Dumbledore’s office, and when your father threw it away, Dobby caught it. He’s what I would call a genetic outlier, and prefers being free.”

A nearby elf sniffed its disdain, but since Dobby was still working, they appeared willing to at least tolerate him. The looks they were shooting at Winky were much more worried and sad.

Malfoy blinked a few times. “Father was tricked—by _Julian_ fucking _Potter?”_

“What did he tell you?” Theo said in a slightly strangled voice.

“That we—that Dobby wouldn’t listen to orders so we sold him to a house-elf relocation service!” Dobby shook his head violently. “I— _what?”_

Theo and Daphne lost their battle in unison, cackling.

Hermione shot them a halfhearted glare and turned back to Dobby. “What’s wrong with her?” 

“Winky is pining, sirs and miss,” Dobby said. At least Hermione and Malfoy had quit their bickering; Hermione stared at the elf with something between worry and shock. Malfoy just looked vaguely terrified of touching her for fear of getting grime under his perfect aristocratic fingernails. “Winky wants to go home. Winky still thinks of Mr. Crouch as her master, sirs, she doesn’t want Dumbledore as her master, and nothing Dobby says is persuading her otherwise.”

“Winky,” Hermione said hesitantly, “er—why is… why are you not wanting Dumbledore as your master?”

Winky clutched her butterbeer and stared mutinously. “It is not Dumbledore is my master, miss, Hogwarts elves is bound to the land-magic, not true wizard magic. I is spending my whole life tied to wizard magic, miss.”

“What if a witch or wizard with enough magic was willing to take you as their house-elf again?” Hermione said.

Daphne cocked her head. “Did you get tested?”

“I did,” Hermione said with a grin. “At Hogsmeade yesterday.”

 _“That’s_ where you were,” Blaise muttered. “Theo would _not_ stop talking about wanting to show you some book. Drove me mad.”

“And… you’ve enough for your own latent magic to support an elf?” Malfoy said. “Without family magic?”

Hermione’s grin widened. “Evidently.”

“Impressive,” Daphne said.

Winky focused with apparent effort on Hermione. Dobby seemed unable to form words.

“You is… you is… offering... you is wanting Winky’s service, miss?” Winky said.

“Yes,” Hermione said, like it pained her. “If… you’d rather… if Mr. Crouch won’t take you back, then…”

“Yes, miss!” Winky dropped her bottle and prostrated herself at Hermione’s feet much like she’d done at Crouch’s in the forest. “Yes, miss—a proper house-elf bond—Winky is very willing… _hic!”_

“Are you quite sure you want this one?” Malfoy said, nudging Winky with his foot. “If you insist upon bonding to an elf, I’m sure my mother can recommend…”

Hermione dropped to her knees and slapped Malfoy’s foot aside without even looking at him. “Ignore him, Winky, and—no… I don’t want you to do any of this… falling at my feet, okay?”

“Is… is you ordering, Mistress?” Winky said uncertainly.

“I _can’t_ , technically,” Hermione said. “Right? We have to do the ritual first, and only the Ministry’s legally allowed to do it.” Her tone revealed exactly what she thought of this law.

“Winky is doing as Mistress says,” Winky said, pulling herself into a shaky sitting position. “Un-unofficially.”

“Hermione,” Hermione said. “Call me Hermione, then.”

Winky shook her head so hard she fell over again with another hiccup. “Winky is not calling a witch by her name, Mistress! Winky is not permitted…”

Hermione rubbed her temples.

“Use Miss Hermione, then,” Malfoy said haughtily. “If you must resort to some kind of formality.”

“I wish I’d brought popcorn,” Harry muttered. Daphne snickered.

“Miss… Miss Hermione,” Winky said, cringing a bit. “I… is… I is using that…”

“It’s settled,” Hermione said. “I, er, got the paperwork started… but it’s… a slow process.”

“Oh Merlin, no,” Malfoy said. “You’re not going through Diggory’s department, are you?”

“Of course I am,” Hermione said. “It’s his people that deal with the regulation of magical creatures—”

“And, frankly, for a Muggle-born with no connections, that process might take _years,_ ” Daphne said.

Hermione glared at her. “My blood status—”

“Matters,” Blaise interrupted. “Not to _us_ , mind, but the Ministry’s horrifically corrupt. Connections and money mean a lot. You, unfortunately, haven’t got the connections to know who to bribe or offer favors to.”

“You do,” Hermione said, looking at Daphne. “You, Pansy, Theo.”

Malfoy sighed heavily. “I’ll write Father tonight, if you really must adopt this horrid thing. He’ll have it done as soon as possible.”

“Can you handle not having everyone’s attention on you for longer than sixty seconds?” Daphne muttered.

“It’s a slow process,” Blaise said. “Even for Lord Malfoy. Should be done in a few months. Six at the most.”

“Months,” Hermione muttered. “Your government’s almost as bad as the Muggle one.”

“Our,” Daphne said.

Winky struggled to her feet. “Winky is cleaning herself up, Mistress… Miss Hermione. Winky is grateful for getting to do honest work.”

All five students watched her wobble several steps and crash into the wall.

“We is helping,” another elf said, appearing out of nowhere and helping Winky to her feet.

“Well,” Hermione said, watching them all walk away. Winky sagged between two elves now. “That went well.”

“You is taking Winky away from Hogwarts, miss!” Dobby squeaked unhappily. “Winky is being freed, and… and now she is not!”

“You wanted to be free,” Hermione said. “You’re happy free. Winky’s not. Wouldn’t you rather she be happy doing work than miserable and drunk because she hasn’t got any?”

Dobby frowned.

Hermione snatched a scone off the tray floating by them and stalked away.

“ _She’s_ come a long way,” Blaise said, smirking.

 

“I really hate to ask this,” Harry began.

Hermione didn’t even look up. “Then don’t.”

He sat down across from her in the library and laid a hand over her runes book.

 _“What?”_ she said, glaring at him.

“I don’t actually hate to ask this,” he said with his most charming grin. “I was sort of just saying that because people like niceties.”

 _“I_ don’t,” Hermione said. “Spit it out already, I’ve got work to do.”

This was why Harry liked her. “Can you ask Winky about Crouch? That secret she mentioned last time?”

Hermione sighed. “I knew you’d ask that, you know, so I already did it. She’s got some funny notions about her masters and such. Crouch’s secrets are Crouch’s secrets. I doubt Veritaserum could get her to talk. She’ll keep my secrets but she’s not about to spill his either.”

“Pity she’s not a _touch_ more independent,” Harry said. “Worth a shot, I suppose.”

“I cannot _believe_ how Mr. Crouch treated her,” Hermione muttered, yanking her book away with such a dark glare that Harry let it go without arguing. “Horrid man. I really hope he’s been missing because he’s contracted some kind of terminal illness.”

“I could probably give him a terminal illness,” Harry suggested.

“You will not...” Hermione paused. “…let me hear about it.”

He grinned. “We’ll see what opportunities present themselves.”

She said some other grouchy thing about Slytherins and shooed him away with an impatient gesture. Harry strolled away with his hands in his pockets. Hermione could be moved to some interesting lengths against those who violated her principles of right and wrong. He wasn’t going to _actively_ move against Crouch… but the man certainly had a secret, and his disappearance from the public eye was suspicious, and if Harry got a chance, it was nice to know Hermione wouldn’t turn on him.

 

_Neville_

At breakfast the next day, Blaise’s prediction came true. Hermione received a deluge of nasty letters.

“‘Go back where you came from Muggle’?” Dean quoted incredulously. “This is _ridiculous._ ”

Hermione shrugged and slit open another envelope.

Neville snatched one of the fatter envelopes before Hermione could open it and sniffed. “Undiluted bubotuber pus,” he said grimly, wondering what kind of person would send an envelope of _that_ to a fifteen-year-old girl. “Don’t vanish it, it’ll explode and we’ll all get the vapor in our eyes.”

“Charming,” Hermione said, pushing a few envelopes aside so she could get at her toast. “Can you…”

“Yeah, I’ll take it to Sprout.” Neville landed two Sealing Charms on the envelope to be sure and tucked it in his bag.

Hermione piled some of the envelopes and letters up. _“Evanesco.”_

The pile vanished.

Ronald choked on his orange juice. “You—that’s a sixth-year spell!”

“Harry’s been doing it since last year,” Hermione said primly.

Jules flushed.

“Oh well if _Harry_ can do it,” Seamus muttered.

Neville glared at him and pointed his wand at the envelopes. _“Evanesco.”_

He’d not successfully vanished this many separate objects before, but being pissed usually helped, and he was _really_ starting to get pissed at how often they underestimated him. And at them talking crap about Harry. Harry had been the first to see something in Neville worth befriending, Harry had thought he was valuable before they even knew about the wand problem and knew Neville wasn’t a hopeless wizard, and for that Neville would do a lot more than defend Harry to stupid people.

The heap of unopened envelopes disappeared.

Hermione grinned at him. “Great job, Nev!”

“Thanks,” he said, smiling back, but his eyes stayed on Seamus.

Jules shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

 

_Jules_

“Knight to D four,” Ron said.

“You know, maybe if you gave a set of experienced chessmen to Seamus, he wouldn’t lose every time,” Hermione suggested.

Seamus frowned at the board. “Pawn to E three.”

“I don’t rely on my chessmen,” Ron snapped, and went back to listening to them shout advice at him while he planned his next move.

Jules tried, and failed, to ignore all of them. His workload was mounting steadily and he found himself rather glad there was no Quidditch this year; he was working flat out just to get through all his homework and he couldn’t imagine adding practice to his schedule. How Harry’s whole slimy lot had the time to laze about in the Great Hall after meals _and_ work ahead to _sixth-year vanishing spells_ he had _no_ idea. Not to mention Hermione’s latest frenzy of research. The girl really was ridiculous.

“Jules,” she said suddenly. “Your family’s got house-elves, right?”

“…yes,” he said warily. The break from Snape’s horrid essay was nice but he’d rather dive out the window than listen to another tirade about elf rights.

“Have they all been in your family?” Hermione pressed. “For their whole lives?”

Jules had to think about that one. “Marnee hasn’t. She’s odd, though.”

“I thought so,” Hermione muttered, flipping through a book.

“Thought what?” Neville asked. Jules wished he and Hermione would go to the library or whatever nasty dungeon hole they probably used to hang out with the Slytherins since Jules never saw any of them in the library or the common leisure rooms or anywhere. The Gryffindor common room was a lot more fun without them around.

Hermione added _another_ book to a table already strewn with them. “It’s somewhat traumatizing for elves to be cast out of one family, and even when another witch or wizard binds them, it doesn’t… the damage can… last,” she trailed off absently.

“Why d’you care so much about elves?” Ron said.

Hermione didn’t appear to hear him.

“She’s binding one,” Neville said.

Jules choked on his own spit and scowled at the other boy. “She’s _what?”_

“I’m right here,” Hermione said. “Winky. Crouch’s elf.”

“Checkmate,” Ron said.

Seamus threw a pawn. Jules caught it and tossed it back with a grin; watching Ron trounce people was fun when you weren’t the one getting trounced.

“What d’you care about Crouch’s elf?” Ron said, turning his full attention on Hermione. That wasn’t good. They argued nearly every time they spoke. Jules often wished Hermione could learn to keep her mouth shut. Harry just had a tendency to collect the annoying or weird or untrustworthy people.

Hermione glared at Ron. “She’s so miserable she’s drinking herself into a stupor in the Hogwarts kitchens. I’d rather have her bound to me and happy doing—doing my laundry and such things than see her in such a state.”

“She’s just an elf,” Jules muttered. “And she took my wand.” He still burned with the humiliation.

“Oh for Merlin’s sake!” Hermione snapped, slamming her book shut. “You don’t know that, Jules! Anyone could’ve picked your pocket in the chaos, it’s not like you’re careful with it! Harry kept his head while you were banging on about going to join the fight, and you have the gall to sit here and blame a terrified elf for your own carelessness?”

Jules’ face felt hot with fury. “She probably snatched it _because_ she was so scared and then lost it or got it stolen and someone used it to cast the Mark! The Death Eaters are on the move, Hermione, can’t you see it? The papers have all these rumors—Moody and I talked about it just the other day, and so did Dad and me, and all you care about is one bloody house-elf!”

“Don’t you care about the old customs?” Hermione demanded. Jules blinked; how the hell did she know about those things? Muggle-borns never did. “About it being—a mark of honor for a wizarding family to treat their elves right! Crouch was doing the _opposite_ and he’s a hero to your lot—”

“He’s not perfect,” Jules argued. It still sat wrong with him that Crouch was responsible for Black going to Azkaban unjustified. Dumbledore and Dad had told him everything, shown him the memories of select non-sensitive conversations between Crouch and Dumbledore. “He’s made mistakes—but he did a lot to protect the Ministry and beat back Dark wizards! If the Death Eaters had won, Hermione, you’d be, I dunno, a slave or something.”

“Yes, thank you for reminding me that you can’t seem to forget my blood status,” she snarled.

Ron threw a Chocolate Frog box at her; it bounced off her book and hit the floor.

“I overheard Karkaroff and Snape talking about something getting darker after Potions,” Dean said. “D’you think…”

“Snape’s a slimy git like all those Slytherins,” Ron said. “He’s probably raising the lot of them to be baby Death Eaters. Did you hear they’ve got a Muggle-born this year?”

“Poor thing,” Jules said fervently. He couldn’t _imagine_. It was weird enough Nott and Zabini and Parkinson and Greengrass managed to pretend they weren’t disgusted by the sight of Hermione; Malfoy getting involved lately was just… bizarre. Probably using her for something. He wished he could eavesdrop on what they said about her in the common room but there was no way Hermione’d brew him more Polyjuice and he couldn’t do it alone. Maybe he could owl order some… but it was illegal and he didn’t know how to get around that… Dad wouldn’t help, not with how dangerous things were getting…

Seamus sniggered. “Bet they use the kid for curse practice in the evenings.”

“Don’t talk about them like that,” Neville snapped.

Jules blinked at him. He wished Neville would go back to how he used to be—quiet and easy and awkward but still a nice kid. Lately he’d been as irritable as Hermione. “It was a joke, Nev, don’t be so defensive.”

Neville gripped his wand. “I’ll bloody well be defensive when you’re insulting my friends!”

“They’re Slytherins, they’re not your friends,” Ron said. “They don’t _have_ friends.”

“Just minions,” Dean said.

Jules frowned. “Harry’s not… Some of his friends aren’t my favorite people—okay, most of them—but I can’t see him… just… using someone like that—”

“Because he’s _not_ ,” Neville said.

“Theo and Blaise are better people than _any_ of you!” Hermione said, glaring at all four boys. “And Pansy and Daphne have been more loyal friends than _dear_ Lavender or Parvati! Speaking of which, Ronald, your mother sent Ginny a charming letter about how she knows Ginny’s friends with Slytherins who are friends with me, and Ginny should stay away from—and I quote—a “proper scarlet woman in the making” thanks to those lies Lavender told that _horrible_ reporter!”

“Come off it,” Ron scoffed. “Can’t you see how he gathers people?” He shot an uncomfortable look at Jules. “I know he’s your brother, mate, but I mean… he’s got that whole lot. All those Slytherins, the upper years seem like they bloody _respect_ him now, and somehow he’s roped Finch-Fletchley in… It’s not normal.”

“He’s not like that,” Jules said, but he didn’t _fully_ believe the words and he knew the others could tell. It came out weak. He wasn’t an idiot and he’d grown up going to stupid Boy Who Lived galas where he had to dress up and act like a doll. Not that he didn’t like the attention but he’d rather have been catching Dark wizards, or learning how, than talking to someone’s batty old great-aunt. All the galas, however, had taught him how to see the ways people gravitated towards the powerful, and there was something weird about Harry’s whole crowd. Something that made them “Harry’s crowd” and not “a group of friends that includes my brother”.

“Hermione, you’re _Muggle-born,”_ Dean said uncomfortably. “You and me both. You know the Slytherins; they’re all bigoted prats… D’you really think they can just get over that?”

Hermione stood up, her unattractive bushy hair practically crackling with rage. Jules much preferred Parvati’s sleek black style. “I hate that I have to make this point _again,_ but do _you_ ever realize how hypocritical it is that the only people who keep bringing up my blood status _are you lot?_ Neville’s a pureblood; what do you think’s going on there?! _”_

“Well, Neville’s not… no offense, but you’re not the strongest wizard,” Ron said to Neville.

Jules bit his lip. “I mean… they’re Slytherins, they’ve probably got some ulterior motive.”

“Maybe they like me for _me_ ,” Neville said. “Because I’m one of Harry’s _friends._ Ever think of that?”

“There!” Ron pointed wildly at him. Jules was very glad it was a rare warm afternoon and the common room was empty so no one overheard this argument. “You’re ‘Harry’s friend’! Not ‘their friend’ or—or anything like that—Harry’s!”

“And Theo’s,” Neville said. He looked angrier than Jules had known Neville could get. “And Blaise’s. Pansy’s. Daphne’s. I befriended Harry _first_.”

“Come on, Neville,” Hermione practically growled. “Let’s go.”

“Knights—I mean, our spot?” Neville said.

She was already gathering her books. “Library. I need to do some research on Skeeter.”

“Waste of time,” Ron said. “The woman’s a grown adult, ‘Mione, and you’re just a student.”

Hermione hit him with a Tickling Jinx. “ _Don’t_ call me ‘Mione. Weasel.”

Ron laughed helplessly for a solid five minutes after she and Neville left, which was how long it took Jules, Dean, and Seamus to track down the counterjinx.

“I hate her,” Ron said, when he wasn’t laughing too hard to speak. “So full of herself—always thinks she’s right—she’ll see.”

“Malfoy and Nott and Parkinson are definitely up to something with her and Finch-Fletchley,” Ron said.

“Maybe Neville, too,” Seamus said. “He’s… kind of awkward, you know? And so bloody clumsy.” He mimed dropping his chess pieces with an exaggerated look of shock.

Jules felt a little bad for laughing. Only a little. It was true.

He didn’t want to think of Harry like that. They were—they were _brothers_ for all their differences. They were brothers and Jules had finally gotten a slap upside the head this summer about Harry’s childhood and why some of those differences existed in the first place. But then again… Harry was a Slytherin, and seven years in the snake pit could turn anyone Dark.

Jules hated his father, just a little bit and just for a moment. If Harry had never gone to Mum’s awful sister and her whale husband, Harry would’ve grown up a wizard and a Potter and gone to Gryffindor where Potters belonged and they’d be brothers like they were supposed to be.

But it wasn’t Dad’s fault, really, Jules reminded himself. Dumbledore had first pointed this out when Jules went to him to vent at the beginning of the year. It wasn’t Dad’s fault any of this happened, or Mum’s, or even Pettigrew’s, really. It was Voldemort. Always, it was Voldemort.

So it was him Jules _really_ hated.

He half-listened to Seamus and Dean joking about something or other while Ron complained his way through Divination homework while daydreaming about the day he’d be a great Auror and get to hunt down and kill Dark wizards.

 

_Harry_

Percy’s letter to Ginny was a short and irritable note about how busy he was at the Ministry, but it let slip a couple important details.

“He hasn’t seen Crouch either.” Theo was the first to put it into words. “That bit about knowing his boss’ handwriting…”

“He’s on the defensive,” Ginny said. “I know him. He probably has at least an idea something’s off but he’ll cover his own ass. He’s been dreaming of this job for literally years. Probably thinks he’ll end up Department head if Crouch kicks it.”

Natalie snorted rudely. “As if.”

“He seems to be handling things,” Blaise said. “At least keep them running. Crouch can’t dictate his _every_ move via letter; some of this is your brother, Ginny, and so far he hasn’t started any wars.”

Harry looked unhappily around the Knights Room. It felt very full with the addition of Ginny, Natalie, Alex, and Evalyn. At least all the other dueling club members had cleared out already. “They need to have some kind of class on politics or international relations.”

“Binns’ class could cover it in sixth and seventh years,” Theo said.

Pansy snorted. “Yeah, that’s if anyone could motivate Binns to change either his curriculum or teaching style.”

“I think that’s about as likely as Dumbledore ever getting us to like him,” Daphne sniffed.

Hermione burst into the room. “Blaise, I seem to remember something about a Howler-diffusing spell of your mum’s. I need you to teach it to me.”

“Are you getting Howlers now, too?” Harry said.

“Unfortunately,” Hermione said. She didn’t seem overly upset, which was a relief, but still. “Yelling insults at me for the whole Great Hall to hear.”

“Told you not to skip breakfast,” Theo said.

Harry shrugged. “I had things to do.” He’d fallen asleep in the Chamber the previous night making four rats dance the cancan. “What about Brown and Patil?”

Hermione shrugged, but there was a sudden tension to her shoulders. Harry gathered she was a bit concerned what he might do to her dorm mates and suppressed a smirk. “Lavender’s just jealous. She can’t keep up with me in class. And Parvati has a crush on Viktor.”

“Along with every other girl in this school,” Pansy said.

Daphne leaned her head on Harry’s shoulder. “Not me.”

“Oh good,” Harry said, grinning at her. “That might hurt my feelings.”

“You haven’t got any feelings,” Daphne scoffed.

Theo put a hand to his heart. “Oh, must you be so sweet and affectionate and sappy? I feel my singlehood and it _wounds_.”

“Shut up,” Justin said.

Harry made his excuses and went to find Malfoy.

 

Three days later, Skeeter published an article on the champions’ various love lives that clarified that Hermione Granger had never been romantically involved with Jules Potter despite speculation to the contrary. “Having spoken to several close friends of Miss Granger, this reporter finds it unlikely that any rumors of her toying with anyone’s heart or using illicit Love Potions are founded in anything other than the precocious Muggle-born witch’s intelligence and bravery,” the article read.

Hermione waved it in Harry’s face and demanded what he’d done.

He winked at her. “Check the Prophet over the next few days, ‘Mione.”

Pansy grinned like a cat with a canary.

Two days after that, Rita Skeeter published a scathing biography of James Potter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Malfoy, here, does not reach out to Skeeter to give her dirt on the Gryffs, and never ends up working with her, so she never comes to trust him enough to spill the animagus secret.


	17. The James Potter Scoop

**_Auror, Father, Bully, Fraud: The Untold Story of James Fleamont Potter_ **

_By Rita Skeeter_

_No witch or wizard in Great Britain has not heard the tale of the night, thirteen years ago, that Julian Potter vanquished He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and saved our world from destruction. The tale many have not heard is that of his father, James Fleamont Potter. Lord Potter, last of his line, has for this last decade cultivated a very careful image. He presents himself as the loyal friend and follower of Albus Dumbledore, supporter of the Light, noble Gryffindor, and loving father of the Boy Who Lived, working tirelessly to fight Dark wizards and prepare his son to do the same._

_This image, dear readers, is a lie._

_The untold story of James Potter dates back to his school years. Diligent research has uncovered a history of violence, bullying, thoughtlessness, and laziness that perfectly predicts his behavior as an adult. School records show he rarely went a week without at least one detention. One of his fellow students, who has asked to remain unnamed, describes him as “reckless, irresponsible, lazy, and unkind.” Another prior classmate reports years of bullying at the hands of James Potter and a band of fellow students including werewolf and former Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher Remus Lupin, traitor and illegal Animagus Peter Pettigrew, and recent Azkaban escapee and unjustly imprisoned Lord Sirius Orion Corwin Black._

_“The four of them terrorized the school,” one source told me on condition of anonymity. “It has always been my belief that Pettigrew befriended them only for the sake of surviving seven years in the same dormitory as the other three. Potter was undoubtedly the ringleader.”_

_Potter reportedly exhibited behavior that bordered on stalking towards one Lily Evans for much of their Hogwarts career. He frequently, repeatedly, and arrogantly tried to persuade her to accompany him on various dates despite repeated rejections and even threats of hexes thrown his way. “We tried to get him to stop,” a former friend of Potter’s states, “but he was kind of obsessed with Evans… She came ‘round in seventh year when he deflated his head a bit, but he pushed at her for years.”_

_Under pressure of the war, Potter and Evans married shortly after graduation, and promptly threw themselves into the war effort. Potter and his then-close friend Sirius Black fought in a number of duels and battles against the Death Eaters while Lily Evans-Potter was relegated to a research and administrative role. Potter especially seems to have found an outlet for his impulsive, reckless ways in hunting Dark wizards. However, when his wife became pregnant and it was clear He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was hunting their family, Potter went into hiding in Godric’s Hollow with his pregnant wife and, later, his young sons. Here Lord Potter’s story intersects with the one we all know so well: Pettigrew betrayed his friends to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and framed Sirius Black for the crime, leaving Lily Evans-Potter dead, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named vanquished, and a son with a scar marking him the only known survivor of the Killing Curse._

_The sensational trials of last summer revealed exactly how low James Potter can stoop when pressed. He conspired with Albus Dumbledore and Bartemius Crouch Sr. to knowingly send his innocent supposed “best friend” to Azkaban. Lord Sirius Black languished there, hated when any of us bothered to remember him, for twelve long years._

_During this time, Lord Potter continued to work as an Auror. He was promoted just a few years ago to be head of the department. Numerous scandals have been linked to Potter over the years. They include, but are not limited to: the resignation of Alaric Carrow amidst a veritable blizzard of gossip-based assaults, the Glasgow Incident in 1989, and over two dozen cases of complaints filed for favoritism and bias in the Auror training program and promotion policy within the Auror Department. The impact of Potter’s presence in the Aurors is hard to calculate in detail but it’s undeniable that since his meteoric rise, spurred partly by the fame of his son, the Auror Department has been riddled with controversy like no other period in its history._

_As if that weren’t enough, Lord Potter has also been convicted of criminal negligence in the case of his elder son. Heir Hadrian Sirius Potter pressed charges against his father in July of 1994 for abandoning Hadrian to some of the worst Muggles our kind has had the misfortune of encountering. His maternal aunt was supposed to inform Lord Potter when young Hadrian displayed signs of accidental magic—though why he trusted a magic-hating Muggle to do so is anyone’s guess—at which point Hadrian could safely come home. But it was only upon the arrival of Hadrian’s Hogwarts letter that Lord Potter realized his elder son was not a Squib as he always assumed. He reportedly made a belated attempt to rebuild the relationship between himself and his older son, but upon Hadrian’s Sorting into Slytherin House, Lord Potter’s lifelong anti-Slytherin prejudices drove an insurmountable wedge between them. Julian and Hadrian Potter have managed to develop a cautious friendship and are working toward being brothers in spirit as well as blood. However, their father’s antagonism has set them back at every turn._

_Even more damning, the Squib Arabella Figg, member of Dumbledore’s now-disbanded Order of the Phoenix, lived across the street from Hadrian Potter’s Muggle relatives for the duration of his stay there. As Squibs live dual lives with one foot in our world and one foot in that of the Muggles, it was necessary to use Muggle records for research at this point. The records proved Figg bought her house in Little Whinging in December 1981—only two months after the joint miracle and tragedy at Godric’s Hollow, and one month after Dumbledore and Lord Potter decided to hide Hadrian with the Muggles._

_“I—I suppose I’ve… been in contact with Albus…” Figg said when interviewed. She described Albus Dumbledore as “an old friend” who “has always been very kind to me”, and James Potter as “a bright young man” that everyone in the Order was “very fond of”. Figg refused to answer any questions about the Potters’ Muggle relatives but said that she “often babysat young Harry as a child… the [name redacted] would take their older son”—a grotesquely obese and obscenely spoiled young man— “on various outings and… leave Harry behind… usually with me… He was always so skinny, poor thing, and jumpy, I tried to feed him and show him my cats to put him at ease…”_

_Figg, as well as other neighbors, recalled hearing shouts of “freak” and “boy” from the house where Hadrian lived. They also often saw Hadrian toiling with yard work at all hours of the day in ill-fitting Muggle clothes with limited access to the house, even on the hottest London days. His cousin led a gang of bullying children who terrorized the neighborhood and saw no punishment from their parents while Hadrian was rarely seen to leave the property aside from attending the local Muggle school. Personally, the odds that none of this ever found its way into any of Figg’s correspondence with Albus Dumbledore and from there to James Potter seem very low, but perhaps that’s just this reporter’s opinion. After all, James Potter’s entire history, up to and including his abandonment of his best friend Sirius Black to Azkaban on unfounded fears the future rather than any crime already committed, strongly suggests that Potter is capable of willfully denying or ignoring the conditions his eldest son lived in for so long._

_For a full report on the ongoing DMLE investigation into the whereabouts of Peter Pettigrew, see page 5._

_For a history of the scandals, controversies, and rumors surrounding Potter in the Auror Dept., as well as a retired Auror’s estimation of Potter’s effects on the program and evidence showing how Potter relies on subordinates to run the Dept. while he lazes, see page 7._

_For full coverage of the trials of James Fleamont Potter and Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, see page 11._

_For a history of Lord Sirius Black, how he was framed, his escape from Azkaban, his subsequent quest to protect the Potter twins, and the incredible events which proved his innocence, see page 17._

“Potter!”

Even Moody’s anger-roughened voice couldn’t frighten Harry’s good mood into hiding. He turned around with a pleasant expression that was, for once, genuine. “Yes, Professor?”

“Did you have a hand in this?” Moody snarled, shaking the Prophet in Harry’s face.

Harry’s good mood swelled, as it did whenever he saw someone reading or talking about the article, even as he arranged his face into a vaguely puzzled expression. “I’m fairly sure there’s nothing about hands in the article, Professor…”

“None of your cheek!” Moody bellowed. For a moment, he reminded Harry of Snape, and Harry had to try not to laugh.

“Apologies, Professor, I didn’t intend to be cheeky,” he said.

“Were you involved in the writing of the article?” Moody spat.

Harry shrugged. “I warned dear Rita last fall that she ought to avoid printing anything untrue, anything _implying_ anything untrue, or in fact anything about me not cleared with me first. She sent me the draft. There was nothing false in it, so I informed her I would have no legal objections should she attempt to publish it. Which is the extent of the control I have over Miss Skeeter’s career, Professor.”

“So you had nothing to do with arranging these anonymous sources?” Moody said. “Or that convenient piece a few days ago acting as a stopgap against those rumors flying about your pretty Muggle-born friend, eh?”

Oh, he _was_ clever. More pragmatic than Crouch the fanatic, and more dangerous, because he could think like the other side. Harry had in fact arranged quotes from Snape and Sirius as well as himself for the article on condition of anonymity in exchange for Skeeter doing damage control on the Hermione thing and leaving Daphne (to be proactive) out of future rumor-mongering. But Moody did not need to know that.

“As the Gryffindors have pointed out numerous times, Professor, Hermione’s family hasn’t the knowledge or connections to protect their daughter as any _decent_ parents would do if they could,” Harry said idly. “Be a pity if no one with said connections stepped in until Hermione can grow up and make them for herself. Don’t you think?”

Silence. Both of Moody’s eyes fixed on Harry as intensely as he’d ever seen them and the grizzled old face was unreadable but Harry just sat there under the scrutiny. Bland. Pleasant. Uninteresting.

He knew he’d won when Moody blinked. “Typical Skeeter,” he said gruffly. “Using this kind of thing against a man like James Potter…”

“He made his own bed, Professor,” Harry said softly.

Moody barked a laugh. “S’pose he did. Break the law, pay the price, that’s what I always say. Go on, shouldn’t you be in class?”

“I completed the transfiguration work for today,” Harry said. “McGonagall sent me to fetch extra practice hedgehogs from Hagrid.”

“Carry on, then,” Moody said.

Harry could hear his leg clunking away up the stairs long after Moody was out of sight.

 

_Jules_

“I can’t believe this.”

Jules mechanically chewed his dinner and ignored Ron. He didn’t taste a bite of it.

“It’s ridiculous!”

That was Seamus.

“It’s all _true_.” Hermione.

“Neville, put the bloody toad away, _please_. It’s disgusting.” Dean.

“It is a _he_ , and his name is Trevor, and he’s my pet,” Neville said. “He can sit next to my plate, he’s not bothering anyone.”

Dean shuddered. “He’s _slimy.”_

“So are you,” Hermione said.

Dean made a face at her.

“Oh, I have to go,” Hermione said, spotting stupid Krum with his stupid celebrity name and stupid face that girls loved for some stupid reason. Bet _he_ didn’t have a stupid father who went off and ditched one of his children in an abusive home for years or a stupid brother who couldn’t see the bigger picture and let it the hell go.

Speaking of which. “Meet me at the tower,” Jules said, already getting to his feet and hurrying out of the Great Hall, heedless of the attention he was probably drawing.

“Harry!” he shouted.

His brother was almost to the entrance of the dungeons, surrounded by his usual group of Slytherins. Some of them were older and some of them were younger and even though he wasn’t at the _literal_ center of the group Harry was somehow its focus. The reason it existed. Even as he said something to the group and turned back, letting them go on without him, there was a Harry-shaped hole in their dynamics.

It was so _weird_. And stupid.

Jules hated everything. Especially Harry and Dad and Voldemort.

“Yes?” Harry said pleasantly. He did everything pleasantly. He could probably murder someone with that pleasant expression on his face.

Okay, probably not, but _still._

“Can we talk?” Jules said. Contrary to what plenty of people thought, he was _not_ devoid of tact. It was usually just easier to skip it and get uncomfortable conversations over with. This was Harry, though, Slytherin Harry, who liked _discretion_ and _secrets_ and _sneakiness_ so a private talk it would be.

“Sure,” Harry said. “That classroom work?”

Because Jules did not trust himself to speak rationally at this moment, he answered by walking into the unused classroom Harry had pointed out.

The second Harry closed the door behind them, Jules blew up. “What d’you think you’re playing at!”

“I don’t play,” Harry said.

Jules saw red. “You—just—shut up, okay, you know what I meant! This!” He yanked the Prophet out and shook it with the _stupid bloody article_ on the front page.

 “Thought so,” Harry muttered, doing the thing where he rubbed irritation or frustration out of his temples. “Jules, that wasn’t me.”

“Yes it bloody was!” It _had_ to be. No one else hated Dad this much. Well, Snape maybe, but Snape could’ve done this ages ago if it was him. Plus, he was a greasy slimeball with no friends because Jules was _pretty damn sure_ he’d been a Death Eater who turned on Voldemort for some reason—cowardice, probably, running to Dumbledore for shelter—and who’d want to be friends with one of _them_ , so it wasn’t like he had the connections to pull it off.

No. It had to be Harry.

“Do you see my name on the byline?” Harry said.

Jules gritted his teeth. “Stop dodging the question!”

Harry actually _grinned_. Jules’ entire body was burning with fury. “You’re getting quicker, little brother. Once upon a time you’d never even _notice_ an evasion like that.”

“Answer. The bloody. Question.”

“I did,” Harry said, and suddenly, even though he hadn’t moved, Jules could see through the careful pleasant controlled expression to something like absolute exhaustion.

Well, if he didn’t want people suspecting him of things he shouldn’t have gone and joined the snakes, Jules thought mutinously, but by now even he knew that was bullshit. And Harry had been dealing with a lot lately. As much as Jules, probably, if not more, because he’d picked up on enough from Hermione and Neville’s stories to know Slytherin was a mess of politics and alliances and favors and that couldn’t have gotten any easier with Harry being a champion thrown into the mix.

They were so out of their depths in this bloody Tournament.

“But… the anonymous sources,” Jules said. “The… you didn’t set her up with those?”

“Have you talked to Moody?”

Jules looked away and then back at Harry. He _had_ , and Moody had pointed out that Harry had the motives and the willingness and the ability and the connections to pull this off, but he didn’t want Harry to kn—

“Knew it,” Harry said.

“How?” Jules demanded.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “You look up to the left when you’re lying, Jules. It’s your tell. Everyone has one.”

“What’s yours?”

“I never lie,” Harry said, straight-faced.

Jules sighed. “I hate you.”

“Do you really?”

“No,” he admitted.

They stood in silence for a few seconds.

“Did Skeeter… talk to you?” Jules said finally, most of his anger drained now.

Harry shrugged. “I kind of threatened her with legal action back in the autumn after she hauled you into the closet and Dumbledore dragged you back out looking traumatized. She sent me the draft article a day before publication to make sure I wouldn’t sue for libel, but—our deal was that she wouldn’t print anything about me that wasn’t true. And she stuck to that. I didn’t have a choice.” He hesitated. “I know this is—difficult, for you. Our… father’s… reputation getting trashed. I’m… sorry there wasn’t more I could do.”

Jules gaped at him. He had never, not once, heard the words _I’m sorry_ come out of his brother’s mouth.

“Don’t get used to it,” Harry muttered, and Jules could see some of his walls going back up, some of that sincerity disappearing. He suddenly didn’t want it to go. He suddenly wanted to keep… some kind of bridge, here. Reconciling Harry and Dad was a lost cause but maybe Jules and Harry didn’t have to be enemies.

“Want to go fly?” he blurted.

Harry considered it. He was always so _still_. Jules didn’t know how he did it. “For fun? Tossing a Quaffle around and such?”

“Yeah,” Jules said, relieved. This had worked in summers past and he was sick of the library; that was Harry and Hermione and Neville and Zabini and Parkinson’s turf and the Slytherins had been surprisingly civil but getting on even footing with Harry sounded nice.

“Sure. Is your broom in the team lockers or in your dorm?”

“Team lockers,” Jules said.

Harry nodded. “Mine, too. Let’s go then.”

It was… not horrible.

Jules could not deny—never had—that Harry could fly. Seemed Quidditch skills and looks were all he’d gotten from Dad. Jules wasn’t sure _where_ the rest of Harry’s personality came from; it didn’t match the stories he’d heard about Mum at all. If it wasn’t for their undeniable resemblance he might’ve thought it was a lie that Harry was his long-lost twin at all.

He released a practice Snitch and called over his shoulder that he was going to go chase it around. Harry waved at him from the goalposts, where he was doing some ungodly Chaser drill, so Jules didn’t stick around.

The Snitch shot across the pitch and dodged around one of the empty stands. Jules chased it. He used a practice Snitch both faster and better at dodging than the real kind, so practice was less about the spotting and more about the catching.

He snagged it once, and again, and a third time, each time moving a little farther away from the pitch as the Snitch dodged one way and then the next. This one wasn’t locked onto its release location, which made everything less predictable and more interesting as it got farther from the pitch.

The ball shot out over the lake on the fourth try. Jules chased after it, but hung back from making the catch, choosing to just shoot along with his dragonhide Quidditch boots skimming the icy waters. He’d been down there just last week. At the bottom of the lake, saved by Moody and Dobby and gillyweed.

“I can’t believe we had to swim in the Black Lake in _February_ ,” he said to Harry when he returned to the pitch and they’d landed. “If it wasn’t for Dobby overhearing Moody about the gillyweed, I’d have been toast.”

“Dobby… eavesdropped on Moody?” Harry said skeptically.

Jules rolled his eyes. “He’s an elf, Harry. He’s kind of weird but he’s nice enough… it’s not like he’d _lie_ , though. He was just trying to help.” The odd little creature had an inordinate fondness for mismatched socks but it was weirdly endearing the way he followed Jules around and it had been absolutely _horrible_ how Lucius Malfoy treated him—just what you’d expect from a family of Dark wizards, honestly—and no Gryffindor could let any creature be stuck in a life like that if they had a chance to help.

“I didn’t mean he lied about eavesdropping,” Harry said. There was that calculating coldness in his eyes that Jules hated—the look that kept him from ever trusting his brother. Some of the Order adults didn’t get it… but Jules knew he wasn’t making things up. “I just meant, with Moody’s eye and paranoia, there’s no way he didn’t notice a house-elf listening from around a corner.”

Jules’ eyes widened as he realized. It made so much _sense_. “Moody _knew_ —he probably keeps tabs on everyone and everything in this castle, of course he guessed the house-elf with the crazy socks was the one I freed—he was trying to help me!”

Harry smirked, swinging his Firebolt up over his shoulder. Stupid Black giving Harry that stupid broom. Dad still wouldn’t buy Jules one. The Potters were rich but not as rich as the Blacks and Dad said Ethan, who managed their money, insisted it wasn’t worth the expense. “Of course he was trying to help you. He’s not stupid.”

“He’s _brilliant_ ,” Jules said fervently. “He knows what it’s like to be out there! Fighting! Facing… the stuff that we’ll be facing someday!”

“You,” Harry corrected.

For half a horrible second, Jules thought—

But Harry shrugged and said, “I don’t really think I’m cut out to be an Auror, and anyway I’ve got the political family business to deal with. As Heir,” and just like that Jules felt _slightly_ guilty for thinking his brother was admitting to switching sides. Slightly. Harry hung ‘round the kids of Death Eaters, but still. He was a Potter.

Potters didn’t go Dark.

“Has he been working with you?” Harry said.

Jules tossed his broom into a closet and locked it. It’d be put back in the Gryffindor team lockers by a house-elf in an hour or two. “Some… not outright, since, you know, we’re not allowed help. And I wouldn’t take it if he offered,” he added hurriedly. “That’d be cheating. But he’s trying to help.”

“Of course he is,” Harry said, tilting his head back to look at the darkening March sky. He looked less like Jules’ brother and more like some creepy thing from the Forest with his unnatural green eyes reflecting the last of the sunlight. Jules hated Harry’s eyes. Mum’s eyes. Why did _Harry_ get her eyes to remember her by when he wasn’t even really part of their family? At least not in the ways that mattered.

Plus, the eyes were just bloody creepy as fuck. Especially when he was pissed.

“Why of course?” Jules said, when it was obvious Harry didn’t have anything else to add.

Harry looked down at the castle again and the illusion was gone. “He’s one of Dumbledore’s supporters, it’s no surprise he likes you,” Harry said.

“He doesn’t like you?” Jules winced. “That was dumb. He doesn’t like Slytherins much.”

“No,” Harry said. “No, he doesn’t.”

“He has a point,” Jules muttered.

The doors of the Great Hall swung open. “We are not having this conversation,” Harry said.

“Why not?” Jules demanded, grabbing Harry’s arm and stopping his motion towards the dungeons. If he could just change Harry’s mind—

Harry stared at Jules’ hand on his arm. Jules could feel tension radiating off his brother in waves, registered that his bicep had become taut as stone, and let go hurriedly.

“Neither of us is going to change our opinion,” Harry said, lifting his stupid creepy eyes to Jules’. “We’ll only fight. And—call me a sentimental idiot for this if you like, but I’d as soon not be fighting with you.”

He actually seemed sincere.

“Okay,” Jules said, even though he _hated_ postponing arguments. Have them and get them over with and move on, that was his method, but Harry didn’t operate like that. “Fine. Another time.”

“Sure,” Harry said.

Jules said goodnight and watched him leave. That _sure_ had _not_ been sincere, but too bad. He’d make Harry see Slytherin’s problems, see why Jules couldn’t trust him and Dad had had such a hard time with his Sorting. Harry hadn’t grown up in the wizarding world. He couldn’t understand, not really.

One day he would. Jules was good at arguing.

Maybe he should ask Moody to look out for Harry a little leading up to the third task. He supposed it would be difficult for Harry to take an active role with people who’d only ignored him for years when the war came again.

While he was at it… he could ask Moody if the ex-Auror would consider training Jules over the summer. He had to face Voldemort eventually. He’d be an Auror someday and He was the Boy Who Lived; one day he’d be everything Moody used to be and more.

Jules couldn’t bloody wait.

In the meantime, though, he had to go deal with that stupid article in the common room and the rumors it would start. Rumors he’d managed to temporarily forget while flying. Flying was great for that. He just wished his problems would _stay_ gone when he hit the ground.

 

_Harry_

It was so easy to see through his brother. And easier to lie to him.

 

Easter came and went. Hermione’s vengeance-upon-Rita-Skeeter quest did not abate but she refused any kind of help. Harry told Neville and, on a whim, Malfoy to keep an eye on her in case she hit a wall he could arrange to have removed or stumbled into something big he could use. Neville laughed at him and Malfoy got a little pale. (Harry probably shouldn’t have been thinking about starting Crucio practice on rats when he talked to the blond boy, but oh well.)

 

On May twenty-fourth, the champions assembled with Ludo Bagman.

 _“What_ have you done to the Quidditch pitch?” Jules shouted, when Bagman dramatically yanked down a curtain and led them out of the Gryffindor locker-room passage, revealing the knee-high hedges covering it.

 _A maze_. Now _this_ was intriguing.

“Growing nicely, aren’t they?” Bagman said, kicking lightly at the hedge nearest him. “Give them a month and Hagrid’ll have them twenty feet high. Don’t worry,” he added, spotting unhappy looks on the Hogwarts champions’ faces. “You’ll have your Quidditch pitch back to normal once the task is over!”

 _Little does he know I’m unhappy because they’re_ Hagrid’s _hedges. They probably eat people or something._

“I imagine you can guess what we’re making here?’

A pause, then—

“Maze,” Viktor grunted.

“That’s right!” Bagman said, rather as if he was speaking to a group of small children. “A maze. The third task’s very straightforward. The Triwizard Cup will be placed in the center of the maze. The first champion to touch it will receive full marks.”

“We seemply ‘have to get through ze maze?” Delacour said.

“There will be obstacles,” Bagman said, happily bouncing. “Hagrid is providing a number of creatures… then there will be spells that must be broken… all that sort of thing, you know. Now, the champions who are leading on points will get a head start into the maze.” Bagman grinned at Harry and Jules. “Then Mr. Krum will enter, then Miss Delacour, and finally Mr. Diggory. But you’ll all be in with a fighting chance, depending on how well you get past the obstacles. Should be fun, eh?”

Harry knew quite well, thanks to years of Blaise and Pansy and Malfoy ranting about Hagrid’s terrible teaching in the common room, what kinds of creatures Hagrid would be providing. Jules and Diggory seemed to be thinking something similar. They nodded politely anyway with Delacour and Viktor.

“Very well… if you haven’t got any questions, we’ll go back up to the castle, shall we, it’s a bit chilly…”

Bagman hurried alongside Jules on their way up to the castle. Seeing this, Jules turned to Harry and started talking loudly about Binns’ latest homework assignment, a horrifically dry piece on inter-family hierarchies in the twelve hundreds. Bagman hovered for several minutes until he looked at his watch, muttered something like “Egad,” and ran off.

Jules cut off midsentence. “Sorry,” he said. “Thought he might be offering to help me again, he’s been at it all term…”

“Has he now,” Harry said. That was interesting. That suggested Bagman had some kind of vested interest in making sure Jules won. Thinking back to the Cup, it could be as benign as something like a bet… or it could be something else.

Jules appeared not to notice this. “Yeah, he’s been so annoying. Anyway—”

“Can I haf a vord?” Viktor interrupted suddenly.

Harry realized Viktor was talking to Jules a fraction of a second before Jules did. “Er—me?” Jules said.

“Yes.”

“Vill you valk vith me?” Viktor said.

“Er, okay,” Jules said.

Harry quirked an eyebrow. Viktor shrugged and nodded, so Harry tagged along. Delacour eyed them and Diggory just shrugged and dismissed it. Neither followed.

“What’re we going this way for?” Jules said as Viktor set a course past Hagrid’s cabin and the Beauxbatons carriage.

“Don’t vont to be overheard,” Viktor said shortly.

He stopped on a quiet patch of ground just past the Beauxbatons’ horses paddock.

“I vant to know,” Viktor said, “vy you think it is acceptable for your friend Veasley to treat Herm-own-inny like he does.”

 _That’s actually kind of sweet,_ Harry thought, delighting in the look of defensiveness and consternation on Jules’ face.

“What do you mean?” Jules said.

Viktor snorted and crossed his arms. He was very threatening, in a looming-posture-and-gruff-voice sort of way. Though Harry personally preferred a casual ready stance and a quiet voice because uncertainty was more terrifying than an obvious threat. Case in point: Jules was actually squaring his shoulders and acting belligerent instead of intimidated even though Viktor could probably peel him apart with one hand.

“I _mean_ ,” Viktor said, “she talks about him very often. She does not complain but I am not stupid, I can see that he is very rude. He is your friend. You need to make him stop or I vill haf to.”

 _More like_ we. Harry almost hoped Jules wouldn’t dial back his usual level of interpersonal idiocy on this one; he needed a decent excuse to hex someone right now.

“Ron’s not mean to Hermione,” Jules said mulishly. “Just… insensitive…”

“If he’s insensitive, then Hagrid is a bit on the tall side of average,” Harry said.

Jules scowled.

“Do it,” Viktor insisted.

Jules looked at him and Harry could practically see the words _Quidditch star_ write themselves on the inside of Jules’ skull. He swallowed. “Fine, I’ll—I’ll talk to him.”

“Good,” Viktor said fiercely. He loomed for a few more seconds and then relaxed a bit.

Something moved behind them, in the trees.

Harry instinctively leaped back, wand in his hand, putting Jules and Viktor between himself and whatever he’d just seen.

“Vot is it?” Viktor said, his own wand out. He shifted into a defensive stance as well.

Jules drew his wand. “Hagrid?” he said uncertainly.

A man staggered out of the trees, but he was not Hagrid. It took Harry a few seconds to look past the filthy hair, gaunt frame, eye-bags that had been upgraded to luggage, and shredded robes to Mr. Bartemius Crouch Sr.

Unshaven, gray with exhaustion, bloody at the knees and hands—but the oddest part (beyond the mere fact of him being here) was his behavior. He nattered on wildly to thin air like a drugged-out tramp Harry had seen once when the Dursleys had dragged him out to carry the shopping bags. As they watched, he sank to the forest floor on trembling legs, not stopping his torrent of words.

“Vosn’t he a judge?” said Viktor, staring. “Isn’t he vith your Ministry?”

“Yes,” Harry said grimly.

Jules walked slowly towards the crazy man, wand tucked away again.

“What are you doing?” Harry hissed. _“Jules!”_

“We have to help him!” Jules argued, glaring over his shoulder. He stopped next to Crouch.

Cursing his brother, Harry slid a little closer as well, keeping Jules as a half-block in case Crouch decided to attack them.

“…and when you’ve done that, Weatherby, send an owl to Dumbledore confirming the number of Durmstrang students who will be attending the Tournament, Karkaroff has just sent word there will be twelve…”

“Mr. Crouch?” Jules said hesitantly.

“…and then send another owl to Madame Maxime, because she might want to up the number of students she’s bringing, now Karkaroff’s made it a round dozen… do that, Weatherby, will you? Will you? Will…”

“He’s mad,” Harry whispered.

“He is thinking it is the summer,” Viktor said. “Ven they vere planning the Tournament.”

“Mr. Crouch?” Jules said loudly. “Are you all right?”

Crouch’s eyes rolled in his head.

“Okay,” Harry said, “we should—”

“Dumbledore!” Crouch gasped.

_Of fucking course._

Crouch had a hand on Jules’ robes, dragging himself upright, though his eyes stared over all their heads. “I need… see… Dumbledore…”

“Okay,” said Jules, “if you get up, Mr. Crouch, we can go up to the—”

“I’ve done… stupid… thing…” Crouch breathed. Spittle rolled down his chin. Every word seemed to cost him a terrible effort. “Must… tell… Dumbledore…”

“Get up, Mr. Crouch,” Jules said loudly. “We’ll take you to Dumbledore!”

Viktor hung back, looking uncertain.

“Who… you?” Crouch whispered, staring at Jules.

“A student,” Jules said.

Crouch coughed. “Not… _his?”_

“No,” Jules said.

 _His who?_ Harry mouthed over his shoulder, but Viktor only shrugged.

Well, the only other him who would have students at the castle was Karkaroff. Seemed Crouch was hoping to avoid a run-in with a student of a former Death Eater. Hardly surprising.

“Dumbledore’s?”

“That’s right,” Jules said.

Crouch dragged him closer. If he tried to touch Jules, he’d get a _relashio_ and maybe an _os fractus_ for his trouble. Harry had gotten quite good at both, especially now that the Slytherin upper years were running him ragged in preparation for the third task. Which they could now focus on with more accuracy.

“Warn… Dumbledore…”

“I’ll get Dumbledore if you let go of me,” said Jules. “Just let go, Mr. Crouch, and I’ll get him…”

“Thank you, Weatherby, and when you have done that, I would like a cup of tea. My wife and son will be arriving shortly, we are attending a concert tonight with Mr. and Mrs. Fudge.”

Crouch was now speaking fluently to a tree. He let go of Jules, who did not move. Harry stepped closer.

“Yes, my son has recently gained twelve OWLs, most satisfactory, yes, thank you, yes, very proud indeed. Now, if you could bring me that memo from the Andorran Minister of Magic, I think I will have time to draft a response…”

“He’s _really_ mixing timelines,” Harry said. “His son kicked it years ago, but here he is talking to Percy about him…”

Jules snapped out of it. “We need to get Dumbledore. Stay with him!”

Before Harry could tell him how stupid this was, Crouch underwent another personality transplant and latched onto Jules’ legs, bringing him to the ground.

 _“Relashio_ ,” Harry said, and Crouch lost his grip instantly, but he hardly seemed to notice.

“Don’t… leave… me!” he whispered, eyes bulging again and fingers clawing at the dirt. “I… escaped… must warn… must tell… see Dumbledore… my fault… all my fault… Bertha… dead… all my fault… my son… my fault… tell Dumbledore… Julian Potter… the Dark Lord… stronger… the Potter twins…”

Harry stepped back. This was bad. This was actually worse than he’d thought. He concentrated on Eriss and fumbled for the familiar bond. It was still vague and slippery and hard to use but they’d made a bit of progress and he thought he could—

He forced an impression down the bond, of greasy hair and a sneer and simmering potions and urgency—

Unformed acquiescence and worry pulsed back. He could feel Eriss, very distantly, as she set off with great purpose. The direction of the bond was generally towards the bottom of the castle so Harry figured she was in the dungeons somewhere. Maybe even in the Chamber, but hopefully not; she needed to hurry—

“I’ll get Dumbledore!” Jules said. “Just—Harry, stay with him, I know Dumbledore’s password—”

  _“Stupefy.”_

Jules launched to his feet. “What’d you do that for?”

 _“Mobilicorpus_ ,” Harry said, and Crouch’s limp, unconscious body rose into the air as if on puppet strings. “I’m getting him up to the castle, idiot.”

“Oh,” Jules said.

Harry rolled his eyes.

“I vill go find Karkaroff,” Viktor said.

“Good idea,” Harry said. The sooner they got a teacher here, the better.

Viktor sprinted off towards the lake and the ship.

“Jules,” Harry said, “maybe run ahead and find Dumbledore?”

“Yes,” Jules said, “right, sorry—”

He took off running, too.

Harry moved as quickly as he could while maintaining concentration for the spell. It was harder than he’d expected; even gaunt and travel-worn Crouch was not a small man. All his focus zeroed in on two tasks: maintaining the spell and staying upright.

A shuffle of cloth was his only warning.

Harry unceremoniously dumped Crouch and spun, wand slashing into an extremely overpowered _stupefy_ , but before he could get off the spell something kicked him in the chest and—

 

Awareness returned.

Harry cleared his mind as soon as he could think and lay perfectly still, listening intently. His memories told him he’d been knocked out by something while transporting Crouch; his senses told him he was lying on the ground outside and not in the hospital wing. Also that there were people around. _Who_ they were, though—

“Did it… not work?”

Jules. He didn’t sound terrified or threatened, so it was probably fine. Harry opened his eyes and sat up.

His brother jumped back, startled.

“Got you,” Harry said with a smirk, taking in the rest of the group.

Moody. Dumbledore. Snape, thank Merlin—Harry’s Head of House was a biased git but he always looked out for Slytherins and he and Harry had some kind of grudging respect that bordered on a mentor-apprentice relationship in Potions. He’d be on Harry’s side. Karkaroff. Viktor.

Harry took Viktor’s outstretched hand and let his Durmstrang friend haul him to his feet, mostly to show solidarity. “Crouch?” he said.

Moody shook his head grimly. “Gone. Damn leg,” he said furiously. “Potter here caught me in the entrance hall but I can’t move as fast as I used to…”

“We got here at the same time, Alastor, don’t blame yourself,” Dumbledore said, looking around worriedly. “Harry…”

“I’m fine, Professor,” Harry said, waving his wand to clear the leaves and dirt off the back of his robes. “And I’ll have to ask you call me Mr. Potter, please. Do we know who stunned me? I assume it was a Stunner.”

“Yep,” Moody growled. “Found you crumpled on the ground and Crouch gone. Did you see anyone?”

“No,” Harry said, expression darkening. “No idea who it was. I almost got him, too… Just saw a vague sort of outline of a cloak. Tall, lean. Not as tall as you, Professor,” he added to Dumbledore. “But a bit on the taller-than-average side. Probably a man based on that… but that’s all I have. The spell was silent.”

“Huh.” Moody scowled, raking both his normal and his magical eye over the forest. “They probably disappeared in there…”

“What did Crouch want?” Karkaroff said.

Snape said nothing, his dark eyes glittering as he watched each person in turn.

“He was babbling on about his son, and Bertha—Jorkins, I think, said she was dead—and how he did something stupid he needed to tell Dumbledore about,” Jules said.

“ _Was_ he,” Moody said, frowning so deeply that his face turned into a mess of pitted crags and black-slash valleys in the light of the distant castle. “I wonder…”

“Severus, if you would kindly escort Jules and… escort the Potters back up to the castle,” Dumbledore said, not looking at Harry. Snape nodded and rested a hand on Harry’s shoulder, which Harry tolerated because Snape was his only potential adult ally in this group. “Alastor and I will wake Hagrid and search the forest.”

“Viktor, come,” Karkaroff barked. “We are returning to the ship.”

“I am glad you vere not injured,” Viktor murmured.

Harry nodded. “Write me,” he mouthed, and Viktor nodded, hurrying after his Headmaster.

“Boys,” Dumbledore added.

Harry and Jules both turned to him. Jules’ expression was of worry and fear and eagerness, every inch the apprentice wanting to please the master. Harry made sure his own face was a study in polite attention.

“Any letters you want to write… they can wait until morning,” Dumbledore said, his eyes boring into Harry in particular. “We’ve no need of family members spreading rumors or turning up outraged.”

“Of course, sir,” Jules said immediately. “Dad will keep it quiet if you ask.”

Dumbledore smiled kindly. “I am sure he will,” he said, “your father is an admirably loyal man,” and when he turned his attention back to Harry his smile was much less kind. Snape’s hand on Harry’s shoulder tightened minutely.

“I understand, sir,” Harry said politely. “No owls.”

“Thank you, dear boy,” Dumbledore said with a smile.

Snape managed to shove Harry in the direction of the castle while making the motion appear entirely natural and also like it was Harry’s idea. Harry led himself be guided, because he had nothing else to say and no objections to getting out of Dumbledore’s presence. Jules trotted along at his side, shooting dark looks at Snape that the Potions master mercifully ignored.

“You’re all right?” Jules said, a bit stiffly.

“Fine,” Harry said, as Snape _finally_ let go of his shoulder. “Stunners don’t have any side effects.” He’d been hit with enough of them in dueling club to know that. “I just want to know what rat bastard did this.”

“Rat bastard?” Snape said.

“Not Pettigrew,” Harry amended, realizing where Snape’s thoughts had gone. “Way the wrong body shape—too tall, too thin. Though he could possibly have Polyjuiced,” he added as an afterthought. “And he’d be able to get onto the grounds easily…”

“Maybe _he_ was hunting Crouch,” Jules suggested. “If Vol-sorry, You-Know-Who is up to something and Crouch found out, well, Pettigrew’s pretty much the only active follower he’s got left—and an animagus—makes sense You-Know-Who’d send him to hunt Crouch down!”

Harry was pretty certain he could name at least four Slytherins (including two of his closest friends) and two Ravenclaws who had a family member or three who’d flock to Voldemort’s banner as soon as the creepy asshole stuck his nose out of whatever hole he’d crawled into, but Jules didn’t need to know that.

“Good point,” Harry said, “but Sirius says Pettigrew’s skills lay more in planning and complicated spells that didn’t require too much power. Said he was never magically the strongest and not great in a duel—I wouldn’t pick him for a mission like this.”

“But if he was the only option…” Jules argued.

“The Dark Lord could easily have Imperiused a wizard or witch at random and sent them to do his will,” Snape said through tight lips. “I suggest you stop this inane speculation before rumors begin to spread.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. Snape _had_ to know, especially as a probable former Death Eater, that Imperiused people had no initiative and couldn’t be trusted with complex tasks like hunting someone down without regular refreshments of the curse.

Was there a way to cast the Unforgivables in runes on a person so they didn’t wear off as easily? So they remained as fresh as if the caster were following the victim around under Jules’ Invisibility Cloak controlling their every step?

 _Save that project for the summer_ , Harry told himself firmly. _If you survive the Tournament._

They reached the entrance hall. “Return to your dormitory,” Snape said, glaring at Jules. “Immediately. And stay there until morning, at which point I am sure the headmaster will speak with you.”

“Yes, sir,” Jules said hatefully, but he managed to beat a hasty retreat without saying anything idiotic enough to land him in detention.

 _“Muffliato,”_ Snape said, waving his wand. Harry memorized the incantation as Snape turned on him.

“What were you _thinking?”_ Snape hissed, eyes boring into Harry’s. “Antagonizing the Headmaster—”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, Professor, he’s not fond of me to begin with,” Harry said. “And technically, I didn’t make any promise I intend to break. I won’t be sending any owls tonight. Or tomorrow, for that matter.” He smirked. “I have other ways of contacting… interested parties.”

Snape watched him for a long moment. “Be very careful,” he said softly. “As I warned you and Mr. Nott at the end of your second year… Albus Dumbledore is not a man to be trifled with.”

“Small game first,” Harry agreed. “I take it you saw Ms. Skeeter’s latest?”

“I did,” Snape conceded, and there was a bare hint of a smile on his face. “A delightful article.”

Harry grinned. “Sirius thought so, too.”

“One more thing,” Snape said. “You have a familiar?” 

 _“Eriss,”_ Harry said. He could feel her, and he knew she was nearby.

Sure enough, she appeared out of the shadows almost immediately. Harry bent and let her wind her way up his arm to drape around his shoulders.

“I had heard… a hint, from one of the sixth years,” Snape said, eyes fixed on Eriss with something like fascination, “but I admit I thought it a rumor at best.”

“Nope,” Harry said, scratching under Eriss’ chin. “Definitely not a rumor. I used the familiar bond to have her get your attention.”

Snape held out a hand. Harry cautiously put out his own and accepted something small and cool: his Potter-Black cloak pin.

“Your familiar is clever,” Snape said.

Harry smiled down at her. “She is, sir.”

“I would recommend not advertising… this,” Snape said.

Harry raised an eyebrow and didn’t even bother to answer. Of course he wasn’t going to advertise his snake familiar. He wasn’t an idiot.

“Return to your dormitory,” Snape said, canceling his silencing spell with a flick of his wand. It wasn’t one Harry’d ever heard, and he was going to be looking it up as soon as he got a chance. “Stay there until the morning, in case the assailant is still on the grounds—if it is truly one of the Dark Lord’s people, he could pose a grave enough threat to access the castle itself.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, and he took off at a run as soon as he was out of Snape’s sight.

“Leviathan,” he panted, and the wall slid aside, letting him into the common room.

It was just before curfew and the common room was reasonably busy. Hestia got halfway to her feet from across the room, mouth open, from where she’d been sitting curled into Adrian’s side, but Harry shook his head minutely and went for his dorm. He sneakily signaled to Theo and Blaise.

Theo and Blaise showed up not five seconds later, having seen him cross the common room. “What’s going on?” Blaise said.

“More drama,” Harry said.

Malfoy walked in. “I’m not stupid,” he sneered when all three other boys turned varying levels of irritation on him. “Potter shows up, Nott and Zabini run to their master’s feet.”

Blaise rolled his eyes and Theo barked a laugh. “If that’s what you think this friendship is, Malfoy, you’re really too stupid to be in this House,” Theo said.

“Barty Crouch showed up on the grounds tonight,” Harry said, which neatly cut off the brewing argument, and filled them in on the story while thinking about how glad he was to have Theo as his friend.

Theo looked furious and Blaise distinctly disturbed by the time Harry was finished. “So something that ties together his son, Bertha Jorkins, and the Dark Lord,” Theo summed up.

Harry nodded.

“A secret,” Blaise said immediately. “Something Crouch learned from his dear Death Eater child, and kept…”

“Reputation,” Malfoy said. “Crouch has always been most concerned with his reputation. The Longbottom thing was enough to put all four of them away for life.” His thin lips twisted with some emotion Harry couldn’t name. “He wouldn’t need to spill anything more, he was probably trying to salvage what was left of his name…”

“And now things are heating up, and he tries to come spill,” Theo finished. “Dark Lord catches wind of it and sends someone after him… but how would the Dark Lord learn of it?”

“I’d bet my trust vault there are people in the Ministry who still pass information to certain channels,” Harry said, watching Malfoy as he spoke. Sure enough, his expression flickered slightly. One of those people was probably Malfoy the elder.

Theo and Blaise swapped a glance. “Even someone in Hogwarts,” Blaise said softly. “Harry, someone put your name in that Goblet.”

“I’m aware,” Harry said grimly. “And I really don’t want to die this year. That person’s my greatest threat, but out of everyone, the only people who’ve been acting oddly are Crouch, who I think we can rule out as the culprit, and Bagman, which—well. We’ve all met the man, he’s barely more tolerable than Lockhart and about as competent a wizard.”

“Yeah, no way did he fool the Goblet,” Theo agreed.

They went to bed frustrated and without making any headway.

Harry scribbled down the story in the gold page of his journal for everyone else to see, and snapped it shut before responses could roll in. Theo and Blaise and Malfoy would handle their other friends’ questions.

_“Eriss?”_

The snake appeared almost immediately from her niche in the wall. _“I was so worried!”_

_“What happened? How’d you get Snape?”_

Eriss looked pleased with herself. _“I found the greasy man in his laboratory. I hissed at him. He tried to shoot spells at me, but I took your cloak pin with me. The one the dog man gave you. He picked it up and said some things at me, so I just flicked my tail at him and left. I had to go back and gesture again before he had the sense to follow me. He encountered the stupid silver beard man and your idiot brother in the entrance hall and the three of them went down to the lawn. I followed but I couldn’t get close to you.”_ She didn’t stop moving the duration of her story, winding around and around Harry’s arms and chest while he sat on the bed, as if checking him for injury. _“So I scented instead.”_

 _“Genius,”_ Harry said, sitting straighter. _“Did you find anything?”_

 _“Nothing useful.”_ He could feel her frustration through their bond. _“There was the mad man’s scent, next to you on the ground, and then it led into the forest along with another—kind of familiar, I think I’ve smelled the second one around the castle, faintly, once or twice, but it wasn’t anyone I know. That scent followed the mad man’s scent into the forest but it disappeared about the same place—Moody with the crazy eye and the silver stupid man were tromping all about and their scents destroyed any trails.”_

 _“Damn,”_ Harry muttered. _“If you scent the other person anywhere, follow them without getting caught, okay? And ask the other castle snakes to help you. If you’ve noticed it in the castle, that means whoever came after Crouch has been inside, too.”_

 _“I will_ ,” Eriss said. _“Mariko already has three of the younger snakes following you all the time.”_

Harry grinned. _“I knew it was a good idea to befriend her.”_

 _“You’re the Heir in Hogwarts,”_ Eriss said simply. _“They like you because you respect them and bring them the Cockroach candy in gratitude, but they’d obey you even if you didn’t.”_

Harry stroked her head. _“I always prefer snakes and people to do as I ask because they want to, not because they’re forced. Willing means initiative… like Mariko setting tails on me.”_

 _“Good,”_ Eriss said, curling satisfied around his shoulders and finally going still. _“I am glad I hatched for you…”_

 _“I’m glad you hatched for me, too,”_ Harry said, resting his cheek against her cool, smooth scales for a second before he pulled out his journal. He ignored the various responses waiting for him and scribbled down an update on Eriss’ latest information and tucked it away again.

He had to call Sirius and make sure this hit the Wizengamot within the next few days. Malfoy would pass it on to his father and the Board of Governors would be hot on Dumbledore’s heels shortly. Karkaroff would probably raise hell about treacherous Ministry officials and rigged judges just to be a pain in the arse, and with how many influential, rich Wizengamot members had children or family members at Hogwarts…

James was getting heat for the article. Let Dumbledore catch heat for this.

And Harry kept his promise. He sent not a single owl.

Really, it was quite stupid of Dumbledore to not assume any self-respecting Slytherin wouldn’t have alternative methods of communication set up by fourth year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: remember, the article isn’t necessarily the TRUTH. The line about lily being “relegated” to a backseat position—in my head that’s lily playing to her strengths as a planner and researcher, she was canonically brilliant, but Skeeter’s trying to make james look bad so she deliberately implies it was James shunting his wife to the sidelines. The rest of the article is similar in that it’s tailored to insult James all the way through. Harry’s bargain with Skeeter was getting her quotes from Snape and Sirius in exchange for protection for Daphne and Hermione, who, as a Muggle-born, doesn’t have the connections and resources to properly take legal action against the Prophet and/or Skeeter in the wizarding world like Harry threatened in an earlier chapter. 
> 
> A/N 2: This chapter’s shorter than my norm, only 8000 words and change, but frankly my original plan was 7-8K words per chapter. Obviously that plan’s quite dead; however, this felt like the natural end of the chapter arc so I’m letting it be.


	18. Chapter 18

“Who’s there?”

“It’s Blaise Zabini, Professor Hagrid.”

Harry adjusted his tie and his expression as Hagrid’s heavy footsteps lumbered across his hut towards the door.

The gamekeeper hauled it open. His cautious expression shifted to unhappy the second his eyes landed on Harry. “What d’yeh wan’?” he said gruffly.

“Please, Professor, we were hoping you could allow us to show Harry the blast-ended skrewts,” Pansy said with her best smile. “He’s never seen them before and, well, Mr. Bagman said there’s going to be some of your creatures in the maze…”

“What makes yeh think the skrewts’ll be in it?” Hagrid said. He still hadn’t let them in.

Harry smiled warmly. “Well, from what I hear, they’re impressive creatures,” he said. “An ingenious new hybrid. Why wouldn’t they be shown off to Hogwarts, Durmstrang, and Beauxbatons in the tournament?”

Frankly, he just thought Hagrid had no judgment where his creatures were concerned and Dumbledore had no sense of what was appropriate for his students, but it wasn’t like saying that would get him anywhere.

“I s’pose,” Hagrid said. “They’re righ’ around the back here…”

He came out of the house, yanked the door shut, and stumped around the side.

 _Ooookay then_ , Neville mouthed. Harry half-shrugged and the four of them set off in Hagrid’s wake.

“I warned you he doesn’t like me,” he whispered.

“Thought you were exaggerating,” Neville hissed back.

Harry gave him a look like, really? Me?

“Sorry—it’s _Hagrid_ , he likes _everyone_ ,” Neville said.

They had to stop talking as they caught up to Hagrid.

Harry’s eyes widened as he realized that the skrewts were just as bad as all his friends had described. Nearly ten feet long, spurting fire out of their back ends to propel themselves and armored in glittering black carapaces and waving menacing stingers over their backs like a horrifically mutated scorpion, every single one of them in the enclosure looked like it could kill him in about three seconds. Hagrid had about fifteen of them penned up by stone walls almost as tall as Harry. As he watched, one of them let off a burst of fire and slammed into the edge of its enclosure hard enough to make the wall shake.

“They bin eatin’ each other,” Hagrid said. “So I had ter separate ‘em like this.”

 _He looks disturbingly pleased by these things_.

“Ah, what… exactly are they?” Harry said.

“Hybrids,” Hagrid said happily. “Between a firecrab an’ a manticore.”

“That’s great,” Harry said.

Neville elbowed him and pointed. “Take a look, their bellies are soft.”

“If you need to take one down that’s where you aim,” Blaise said.

Hagrid looked alarmed. “Now, I don’ wan’ the skrewts gettin’ hurt…”

 _And what about the champions?_ “Don’t worry,” Harry said warmly. “I wouldn’t dream of hurting them… Probably couldn’t if I tried, it’s an impressive creature you’ve made. But I could hit its stomach with an _impedimenta_ and run away without hurting it.”

“Ah,” Hagrid said. “Righ’.”

Harry would not be using something as tame and weak as _impedimenta_ if he came across one of these things, but Hagrid did not need to know that.

“We’ve also had success roping their tails,” Pansy said, examining her fingernails. “To keep them from stinging.”

 _Incarcerous_ , then. Even _ferula_ ; Harry had read something about wards rarely being tuned to block healing spells, so a _ferula_ could get past a cloak with runewards traced on it when an _incarcerous_ wouldn’t. Bandages could tie someone up as easily as ropes if you willed your magic in the right direction, and if these things were resistant to offensive magic, maybe healing spells would get through.

“Thanks, Hagrid,” Harry said. “I really appreciate this… The whole tournament’s really kind of overwhelming, I’m not near prepared for it…”

“Yeh and Jules seem ter be doin’ pretty well,” Hagrid said.

Harry shrugged. “Luck, more than anything else… Dobby helped Jules out, with the gillyweed.” _And you showed him the dragons, and not me._

“I s’pose… Neville, d’yeh want some tea before yeh head back up ter the castle?”

Blaise prodded Neville in the spine.

“Uh, sure, thanks,” Neville said. “Come on, guys…”

Hagrid looked unhappy—clearly the invitation had not been for all of them—but he couldn’t argue without looking exceedingly rude, so Harry followed Neville into his house with a pleasant “Thank you” and made a mental note to congratulate Neville later. That was very well done.

They sat down around Hagrid’s table. Harry let Pansy and Neville carry the conversation; Blaise made his chipped teacup look like the Queen’s china, and Harry just tried not to think about what might have been in his cup before.

The whole time, Hagrid kept shooting those badly-hidden uncomfortable looks Harry’s direction.

 _Finally_ , Blaise looked at his watch and said, “We should probably head back up to the castle for dinner.”

“Right,” Neville said. “Thanks, Hagrid.”

“Anytime, Neville,” Hagrid said, offering the only genuine smile Harry had seen from him the whole time.

Harry set his teacup down and sat forward just a bit. Pansy and Blaise knew that shift in his posture; Blaise tensed and Pansy rolled her eyes.

“Hagrid,” Harry said. “I get the distinct sense that you dislike me for some reason and I can’t figure out what it is. Have I done something to you that I ought to apologize for?”

Hagrid stared at him, blinking.

Neville rubbed a hand over his face.

“Er,” Hagrid said. His eyes flicked over the other three.

Without looking away from Hagrid’s beetle-black eyes, Harry said, “Would you guys mind waiting for me outside?”

Blaise took Pansy’s teacup and deposited them both in Hagrid’s sink. “Of course. Thanks for the tea, Professor.”

“Thank you very much,” Pansy chimed in with a sweet smile.

Neville shot Harry a narrow-eyed look on his way out. Probably warning Harry not to piss Hagrid off too badly. It was unnecessary; Harry had no plans of angering him. He just wanted to know what exactly was going on here.

“Is it just that I’m a Potter in Slytherin?” he said. Bluntness was called for here, even though it made his teeth ache. “Because I can’t really help that.”

“Nah, it’s not tha’,” Hagrid said.

Harry pounced. “So there is _something_.”

Hagrid looked away. “I, er… I s’pose.”

“Please tell me,” Harry said. “I would prefer to fix anything I’ve done that caused this… My brother likes you and I’m trying to mend fences with him.” Maybe explaining _one_ of his reasons would help.

“It’s nothin’ you can fix, I reckon,” Hagrid said uncomfortably. “Yeh jus’… remind me o’ someone I knew in school, tha’s all. Someone I didn’ like much.”

Harry flashed back to the Chamber of Secrets with a barely hidden wince. “Was this person’s name Tom Riddle by any chance?”

Hagrid almost dropped his teacup. “How’d yeh…”

“Lucky guess,” Harry said tightly. He should’ve known. The bloody diary itself pointed out the—the similarities. And he was so stupid… “I’m sorry, then, Professor Hagrid. From what I hear, Riddle was not the sort of person I’d choose to emulate. Good night, and thank you for allowing me to see the skrewts.”

He left the cottage before he could lose the grip on his magic, which roiled angrily beneath his skin. Everyone—everyone always blamed him and hated him for things he couldn’t control. It wasn’t his _fault_ he was skinnier and sharper-edged than Jules. It wasn’t his _fault_ he’d gone in Slytherin. Yet here was Hagrid, cold-shouldering him for years—and Harry couldn’t entirely blame him; he’d certainly avoid anyone who reminded him of Dudley—but _still_.

Blaise and Pansy and Neville’s faces might as well have been painted with _We Were Eavesdropping_ for how clearly they announced his friends knew what had just been said. “Don’t,” Harry said quietly, and they all let it slide.

Pansy knew him. Pansy talked about other things and got the conversation turned innocent directions. Harry took the time to get himself back under control.

It wasn’t his problem, he decided, if he reminded Hagrid of teenage Riddle. Harry wasn’t about to go on a genocidal tear. If they looked at his dark hair and sarcasm and Slytherin tie and saw a budding Dark Lord, they could whisper all they wanted.

 

_Jules_

“So this mysterious attacker left Harry lying there and vanished with Crouch?” Parvati tucked herself into Jules’ side as Lavender talked. “Seems kind of stupid. Why would they leave him?”

Jules resisted the urge to pull away from her. She was really pretty and he liked snogging her but also it was getting annoying how she wanted to _always_ be with him and she’d been pissed that it was Ron and not her that he’d evidently miss the most. He tried telling her that Ron was his best mate, but she still cold shouldered him for three days.

Girls were weird.

“They probably want _both_ of you,” Ron reasoned. “You and the creepy Potter, I mean.” Seamus, Dean, and Lavender all laughed at the latest nickname for Harry. Jules reluctantly grinned; it was kind of mean but also funny. And true.

“Good thing Harry sent me off for Dumbledore,” Jules said fervently.

Parvati snorted. “Of course he sent you off to Dumbledore, after last summer he probably doesn’t want to go near Dumbledore if he can help it.”

“Dumbledore would believe him,” Jules protested.

“Yes, but he’d be rude about it,” Parvati said.

Ron gave her a funny look. “Course he would, Harry’s a git and he half-wrecked Dumbledore’s reputation at the trial, didn’t he?”

“Dumbledore made his broom,” Parvati said stiffly. “Then he had to fly on it. It’s only his fault it crashed so badly. I mean, really? Sending a Potter to a Muggle family when dozens of wizarding ones would’ve happily fostered him as their own for a few years? And then _leaving_ him there without ever checking on him…”

“Hey,” Jules said. “They did it for _me_. For the wards.”

“Wards,” Parvati scoffed. “One blood ward on a Muggle home is more secure than centuries of protections on Potter Manor. Right.”

“Where’s this coming from, eh?” Jules demanded. He didn’t want to deal with this. He didn’t want to keep having Dad’s mistakes come back to bite their family in the ass. He knew it was horrible, knew it had messed Harry up and turned him into a potential Slytherin instead of a proper Gryffindor like Potters were supposed to be, but he also knew why they’d done it. He knew Dad and Dumbledore would both do it again. And frankly, he agreed with them.

He wanted to think about surviving the Tournament and how he was going to convince Moody, who’d been reluctant, to take him as an apprentice over the summer, and how Dad was doing with the fallout from that horrible Skeeter cow’s article, and his friends. Not this drama with Parvati and Harry and Voldemort. He was fourteen, dammit, he needed to focus on his training so he’d be _ready_ when Voldemort came back.

“Maybe it _was_ Crouch,” Ron said thoughtfully. “If he was as unbalanced as all that…”

Dean shoved him.

“You idiot,” Seamus said. “Jules said he looked really weak…”

“Plus Harry’s not stupid enough to mistake the unconscious body he was carrying for his assailant,” Parvati said. _“And_ Harry Stunned him.”

“How’s this, then,” Ron said. “Harry dropped Crouch and Stunned himself!”

Lavender frowned. “What, and then Crouch just dissolved?”

“Oh yeah,” Ron said.

“Wonder how he knew that bit about Bertha Jorkins dying,” Jules said, pulling away from Parvati and leaning forward. “Ron, has your mum heard from her?”

“From Mr. Jorkins, yeah,” Ron said. “Not Bertha for a few months. He’s wild with worry—Megan’s still pretty, er, _sensitive_ is the word Mum used, and now this with Bertha going missing… The kid ought to get over it,” he added irritably. “Honestly. It’s been two years. Ginny’s fine.”

“You prat,” Parvati said. “Megan was _possessed!”_

“Two years, though,” Jules muttered. “We need all the hands we can get… Surely there’s, I dunno, treatment or something?”

Parvati wrenched herself away from him and flounced off to her dorms. Lavender followed with a dirty look at Ron.

“What’d I do?” Jules said, catching a tired look from Neville and one of restrained fury from Hermione, who had their heads together over those matching journals Harry’s friends all seemed to carry. Hermione started scribbling almost immediately.

“Girls,” Seamus said, grinning. “They’re mad, the lot of them. Want a Chocolate Frog?”

“Sure,” Jules said.

It was probably better for him and Parvati to not be together, anyway. He was so busy with everything else going on, he couldn’t really put the attention she deserved into a relationship. And Seamus was right; girls were all barking mad. He’d just have to wait for a few years until the Hogwarts female population matured and started making sense.

 

Jules ran up to the owlery after breakfast and a word with Professor Dumbledore about what he should write to Dad, spent thirty minutes trying to find out who the twins were blackmailing, failed, scowled when he saw Harry’s distinctive bird flying out of the owlery after he left Fred and George up there—of course the Weasleys who liked Harry would be using Harry’s falcon for _blackmail_ —and had to run to make it to History of Magic on time.

He’d kept Ron and Seamus and Dean up for ages the previous night, going ‘round in circles talking about the mess down by the forest; Jules felt a little guilty, seeing how tired his three best friends were. Binns’ droning didn’t help. They all stared at him with glazed eyes and it was the first time Jules could remember being shown up by Neville in class—at least outside Herbology, where he was some kind of prodigy, and Potions, because Neville had Harry the bloody Potions genius helping him. Even in his exhaustion, Jules mustered up a scowl for the thought of Harry consistently making perfect potions without even seeming to try. Malfoy and Nott of all people were the only ones who could sometimes match him.

Slytherins. Snape probably fed them the answers the night before.

The Gryffindors had a break after Binns’ class; all four of them packed up their things and hurried off to Moody’s room. Parvati and Lavender had been supposed to come but they both turned up their noses at the boys and stalked away with their heads together. Somehow, though, Hermione ended up tagging along; Ron gave her a few dirty looks that she staunchly ignored and Dean stubbornly dropped back to walk with her so Jules supposed she’d be coming.

Moody opened the door to his office looking as tired as Jules felt. His normal eye drooped, giving his face an even more lopsided look than usual. Jules felt the same awe looking at Moody’s scars as he always did. This man had been out there fighting for real. This man he could _learn_ from. This man could help him achieve his destiny. Dumbledore trusted Moody, and that was plenty good enough for Jules.

“Come in,” Moody growled. His magical eye swept the corridors; a few nearby firsties nervously sped up to get away from him.

The four boys filed inside.

“Did you find him?” Jules said without preamble. “Mr. Crouch?”

“No,” Moody said. He moved over to his desk, sat down with a groan, propped his wooden leg up on a stool, and took a swig from his hip flask.

“So he _did_ Disapparate!” Ron said.

 _“You can’t Disapparate on the grounds, Ron!”_ Hermione snapped. “Honestly, how many times do I have to tell you—there’re plenty of other ways he could disappear!”

Moody’s eyes fixed on her. The bushy-haired girl lifted her chin stubbornly. Jules remembered how quaveringly eager to please the teachers she’d been in first year. That girl was gone right now. He got the feeling she didn’t trust Moody, which made no sense.

 “There are indeed,” Moody growled. “You might want to think of a career in the Aurors, Miss Granger. Mind works the right way.”

Jules grinned, remembering the night he’d gotten the same compliment—though it was a little less cool to have Hermione Granger of all people get the same one. For Merlin’s sake, she was a bushy-haired know-it-all who ran ‘round with Slytherins who secretly hated her for her blood status and didn’t have the people skills to see how they were using her.

As if he’d read Jules’ mind, Moody cocked his head and said, “You’re the Gryffindor friend of the other Potter’s, aren’t you?”

“I am,” Hermione said. “Me and Neville both.”

“Huh. Interesting,” Moody said. “Not that many between Slytherins and Gryffindors in my day…”

Hermione’s grip on her notebook tightened. It was the matching one, Jules realized with a jolt, and the stone on the cover was glowing with a faint red light. How odd. “Maybe students now are less prone to black-and-white thinking, Professor.”

“Maybe,” Moody grunted, not sounding like he believed it. “And the rest of Potter major’s crowd? Nott, Parkinson, Greengrass, Malfoy…?”

“They have all been my friends since first year. I met Harry, Neville, and Theo on the train. It’s funny to me,” Hermione said, “that you supposedly tolerant Gryffindors are the people who repeatedly question my friendships with people not of your acceptable in-group.”

“Slytherins aren’t known for including Muggle-borns in _their_ in-group,” Moody said.

“Blood matters. Ability matters more,” Hermione said heatedly. Moody’s eyes widened briefly. “If you’ll excuse me, Professor, I have homework.”

Jules caught a glimpse of her rage-trembling hands yanking the notebook open before the door slammed on her way out.

“Well damn,” Dean said, staring after her.

Seamus watched Dean watch Hermione’s exit with an unhappy expression.

“Er… Professor,” Jules said hesitantly. “We’ve been worried for… a while… about Hermione being friends with that crowd. Neville too… She’s a Muggle-born and he’s, well, not the most competent wizard, and they’re Slytherins…”

“D’you think they’re using them?” Ron said. His ears were reddening at the thought. “For—Hermione’s brains and Neville’s family or—or something…”

“I don’t know where you come from calling Longbottom incompetent,” Moody said, “but you lot should pay more attention. He’s one of the most powerful in your year and yeah, his wandwork’s a little rough, but with some training he could be a hell of a wizard. Might just follow in his parents’ footsteps.” Something pensive crossed Moody’s face, there and gone before Jules could name it. “D’you really think it’s that bad? Your brother’s one of those Slytherins you’re accusing,” he said, fixing both eyes on Jules.

Jules shifted under the scrutiny. “I don’t _want_ to think that of Harry,” he said truthfully. “But—I’ve never lived with him, I don’t honestly know him all that well… He’s trying to be decent this year, and I know his home life—wasn’t great, and he blames Dad for that, but he’s being too bitter and holding grudges and… he’s a Slytherin. He’s got eleven motives for everything he does and tells people only the one he thinks they want to hear. I wouldn’t trust him with my schoolbooks, much less the friendship of two of my House mates not known for their ability to see when people are manipulating them… you know?”

Moody took another swig of his flask and considered this. “You might be seeing demons where they aren’t, Potter, Weasley. I’ve not picked up anything to suggest that… and I pick up more than most,” he said with a sadistic grin, tapping his eye. Jules watched it roll in its socket with sick fascination. It was so _cool_. “But I’ll keep an extra eye on ‘em… Dumbledore did say for me to look out for you lot, and we Gryffindors have to stick together, eh?”

“Yeah,” Ron said, grinning maniacally. “Yeah, we do…”

“Listen, I know you lot fancy yourselves investigators, but leave this one to the adults,” Moody ordered. Jules deflated a little at that even though he knew it made sense. “Crouch’s attacker will be caught in time or he won’t, but either way, Potter, you need to be focusing on the Tournament.”

“Yeah…” Jules said. “It’s a maze this time.”

“Hagrid’s supplying creatures,” Seamus said with badly-hidden horror.

Dean shook his head. “You’re going to need all the luck in Hogwarts, mate.”

“Maybe not,” Moody growled. “From what I hear you’ve done stuff like this before… Fought your way past a bunch of obstacles the staff set up first year, didn’t you?”

“We helped,” Ron said quickly. “Seamus and me helped.”

“And Hermione,” Dean added. Ron threw the other boy a dark look.

“Well, help him prepare this time around and there’s no reason why you can’t win,” Moody said. His magical eye rolled and looked out the window where you could just see the top of the Durmstrang boat’s sails. “And don’t go wandering off with anyone else at night, Potter. You can never be too careful…”

 

Jules spent the week training with his friends. Parvati and Lavender got over their irritation and helped him look up and learn new spells; some of the upper years even got involved, mainly his Quidditch friends but some others like Toby Pritchard who wanted Gryffindor to win and knew Jules’ family. It was weird, though—if you brought up Harry around Toby or his friend Ben Creed, they both went a little green in the face and changed the subject, and then worked a lot more intensely.

He was exhausted but he was learning loads. Jules couldn’t wait to try these out in the Tournament—or on the Slytherins next time one of them picked a fight. He and Harry didn’t come to wands-drawn much anymore but Malfoy was a problem, and Jules loved the idea of Nott with tentacles for arms or swallowing his tongue…

“Slytherins won’t know what hit ‘em,” Ron said with satisfaction as he Stunned Dean for the fourth time in a row.

Seamus grinned and twirled his wand. “Can’t wait for that prat Malfoy to draw his wand at one of us again…”

“Or the Parkinson bitch,” Lavender said. “Or even Hermione.”

“Hermione’s never drawn her wand on you,” Dean said.

Lavender sniffed. “Doesn’t mean she wouldn’t. She hates me.”

“In fairness, you gossiped about her to Skeeter and got her sent hate mail,” Dean said.

“She deserved it,” Lavender said, “she’s so insufferable… And how was I to know that’s what would happen? I was just telling it like I saw it…”

Jules felt like there was something wrong with that, but she had a point that Hermione was insufferable, and he liked having the girls’ help too much to argue.

 

“I hate this class,” Jules complained.

“Trelawney’s a crack but at least it’s easy,” Seamus said.

Ron snorted. “All we have to do is make up some tripe about our painful deaths and she eats it up.”

Jules didn’t answer. The possibility of his own painful death had never loomed as close over his head as this year. He grew up aware of the target on his back, of course, and he grew up knowing one day he’d take up the Auror mantle and throw himself into danger hunting Dark wizards, and he _wanted_ to, but at the same time he knew he wasn’t _really_ ready at fourteen for all this.

Then again, he’d done well in both the first and second tasks—it was annoying he was tied with Harry right now, but he’d had experience with things like the maze before, in first year, and Harry hadn’t, and neither had Cedric—Moody was right; Jules was a lot better prepared for this than most fourteen-year-olds.

He tuned out Trelawney droning on about Mars and leaned his head on his hand. The incense smelled so weird… and it was so stiflingly hot in here… and he was so tired from all his magic practice lately…

An insect droned somewhere behind the curtain over the window as Trelawney dimmed the lights and showed them a model of the solar system. His eyelids began to droop…

He was riding on the back of an eagle owl, high above rolling hills and houses. The owl banked and dropped towards a big old ivy-covered manor on a hill with a town at the bottom. They flew lower and lower… the wind was pleasant in Jules’ face… and they flew along a gloomy passage in the house, and then into a dark room at the end of the passage, and he stopped and watched from a chair while the owl fluttered across the room and waited patiently…

Two dark shapes stirred on the floor. One was a massive snake. He felt a distant, vague sort of fear… The other was a man…

“You are in luck, Wormtail,” said a high, cold voice. It sounded like it was coming from right behind Jules… but he couldn’t turn and look… “You are very fortunate indeed. Your blunder has not ruined everything; he is dead.”

“My Lord!” gasped the man on the floor. “My Lord… I am so pleased… and so sorry…”

“Nagini, I do apologize,” the cold voice went on. “It seems you will not get to make a meal of Mr. Pettigrew today…”

That gave Jules a bit of a nasty shock…

“Now, Wormtail… a brief reminder of why it is a poor choice to fail me,” the voice said, and then a pale wand inched into view below Jules to his right, an almost childlike hand gripping it—

 _“Crucio_ ,” the voice said, and Pettigrew started screaming, and Jules started screaming too, and Voldemort would hear him, he had to get out, but he couldn’t leave—

The screaming went on and on and on—

“Jules! _Jules!”_

Jules opened his eyes and found himself on the floor of the Divination room. Parvati and Ron crouched over him, terrified. His scar burned like Fiendfyre and both of his hands were clamped to it. His eyes, to his horror, were watering with the pain; he dashed them away hurriedly as he sat up. The whole class was standing around him looking scared.

“You all right?” Ron said.

“Of course he isn’t!” said Trelawney as if nothing had ever been so delightful. “What is it, Potter? A premonition? An apparition? What did you see?”

“Nothing,” Jules lied.

He was not a good liar on the best of days, and Ron and Seamus quite obviously caught it. Jules pulled himself into a sitting position. He couldn’t stop himself peering at shadows. Voldemort’s voice had been so _real_ …

He had to talk to Dumbledore.

“You were clutching your scar!” said Trelawney. “Rolling around on the floor as if it pained you greatly… I have experience in these matters!”

“Just a bad headache,” Jules said, clambering to his feet. His heart hammered. “Er… Professor, can I go to the hospital wing? I could ask Pomfrey for some medicine…”

“He gets these sometimes,” Ron said immediately, and hustled Jules straight for the trapdoor leading out of the classroom.

“See you later,” Jules muttered to him, and bolted straight out of the room.

He ran all the way to the hall with Dumbledore’s office and skidded to a halt—and realized he didn’t know the password.

“Fizzing Whizbee,” he tried; that had been the password two weeks ago, but they changed…

The gargoyle didn’t move.

“Cockroach Cluster.”

Jules whipped around, heart jackknifing again, as the gargoyle leaped aside—

It was Harry, pushing away from the wall where he’d been leaning in the shadows. Creepy little shit; how had he even known…

“What’re you doing here?” Jules said blankly. “Shouldn’t you be in class?”

“Yup,” Harry said, popping the _p_. “Fudge is up there, along with Moody and Dumbledore. They were arguing about the Crouch mess all the way up from the entrance hall.”

“How’d you see them if you were in class?” Jules said suspiciously.

Harry waved this away with a grin. “I have my sources. Anyway, I was waiting to see what else I might overhear when they came out, but this sounds _much_ more interesting. What happened, little brother?”

“Headache,” Jules said shortly.

Harry’s mockery slid a little. “What kind of headache?”

“…from a vision.”

“Huh.” Harry’s eyes narrowed. “So on top of all this other shit… your connection to Voldemort is getting more active, too?”

Jules nodded.

“Ominous,” Harry muttered. “Shall we listen a bit?”

“No, we should just go up,” Jules said, but then the two of them stopped at the base of the stairs and he found himself eavesdropping right alongside his brother.

“Dumbledore, I’m afraid I don’t see the connection, don’t see it at all!” This was Fudge, who Jules had met many times at various Ministry or Boy Who Lived functions. He didn’t like the Minister much but Dad and especially Ethan said they had to work with him so work with him Jules did. “Ludo says Bertha’s perfectly capable of getting herself lost. I agree we would have expected to find her by now, but there’s no evidence of foul play, Dumbledore, none at all. As for her disappearance being linked to Barty Crouch’s!”

“Idiot,” Harry whispered. For once, Jules found himself in perfect agreement with his brother.

“And what do you think happened to Barty Crouch, Minister?” Moody growled.

“I see two possibilities,” said Fudge. “Either he finally cracked—more than likely, you’ll agree, given his personal history—lost his mind and gone wandering off…”

“He wandered with extreme speed and direction if that was the case, Minister,” Dumbledore said calmly.

“Or else—well…” Fudge sounded very embarrassed. “I’ll reserve judgment until I see where he was found, but you say it was just past the Beauxbatons carriage? Dumbledore, do you know what that woman _is?”_

Jules hissed out a breath. Typical. Just because she was half-giant…

“How delightfully open-minded,” Harry muttered.

“Are you ever not sarcastic?”

Harry thought for a second. “Occasionally…”

“I consider her to be a very able headmistress—and an excellent dancer,” Dumbledore was saying.

“Dumbledore, come!” Fudge said angrily. “I know you’re biased in her favor because of Hagrid, but they don’t all come out harmless—if you can even call Hagrid harmless with that monster fixation he’s got—”

“I no more suspect Madame Maxime than Hagrid,” Dumbledore said calmly. “I think it is you who are prejudiced, Minister.”

“Never thought I’d agree with Dumbledore,” Harry said. Jules kicked him and Harry shot him a vicious glare.

“Can we wrap this up?” Moody growled.

Fudge sighed impatiently. “Yes, yes, let’s get down to the grounds.”

“Not just that,” Moody said. “It’s just that the Potter twins are outside the door, Dumbledore, and they’d like a word with you.”

The door to the office swung open.

Jules opened his mouth to apologize—

“Thank you, Professor,” Harry said with a beaming, unashamed smile, and as he sauntered straight into the office like he owned the place, Jules had no choice but to follow.

He loved Dumbledore’s office. The paintings of fake-sleeping previous Headmasters and Headmistresses, the windows and their gorgeous views, the intriguing silvery instruments lining the gaps in the shelves full of ancient books…

“Jules!” Fudge said jovially, striding forward to shake his hand. Harry slid neatly to the side and did something with his body language that made him entirely unnoticeable; Fudge fell for it and ignored him completely. Moody and Dumbledore both watched Harry but Jules had to pay attention to exchanging niceties with Fudge and he didn’t get to see that whole scene pan out.

“We were just talking about that Crouch turned up,” Fudge said. “It was you who found him, right?”

“The two of us, and Krum,” Jules said.

Fudge appeared to notice Harry. “Ah—right—I’d forgotten,” he said.

Harry smiled charmingly. How he just turned that on and off Jules had no idea. “I’m afraid my part was relatively minor, Minister Fudge; I got myself knocked out while trying to levitate Crouch back up to the castle…”

“Well, levitating a man his size that far—it’s quite a feat for a fourteen-year-old!” Fudge said. “Very brave of you to stay in harm’s way, m’boy… I daresay you may’ve been Sorted wrong, ha!”

He laughed at his own joke and Harry’s expression didn’t falter, but Dumbledore, Moody, and Jules all adopted expressions that said exactly how unlikely they thought that was.

“We certainly didn’t see anyone else down there,” Harry said. “I was in an open area, and the silhouette I caught a glimpse of was decidedly not large enough to be Madame Maxime… Slightly taller than the average man, and lean, but nothing like her or Hagrid.”

“Well,” Fudge said uncomfortably, “be that as it may…”

“I didn’t see her either,” Jules said loudly, “and she’d have a job hiding, wouldn’t she?”

Dumbledore twinkled at him. Jules grinned.

“Yes, well,” Fudge said again. “We’re just… going to go for a short walk on the grounds… if you could just return to your class…”

“I wanted to talk to you, Professor,” Jules said swiftly.

Dumbledore gave him a searching look. “Wait here for me, Jules.”

The three adults left Harry and Jules alone in Dumbledore’s office.

 

_Harry_

“Bit irresponsible, isn’t it?” Harry said idly, trailing his fingers over the bookshelves. “Leaving two fourth years known for getting in fights alone in his office… whatever could go wrong?”

“Don’t you dare,” Jules started.

Harry snorted and sat down in a chair, kicking his feet up on the edge of Dumbledore’s desk. “Wouldn’t dream of it, little brother. I plan to wait here like a good little boy.” And memorize the titles of every book within sight, since he’d transfigured his eyes into those of an eagle while Jules’ back was turned and he could easily read those on the top shelves across the room from him, and in a state of Occlumency your memory was way better than usual. But Jules didn’t need to know that.

“A good boy, you are not,” Jules grumbled.

Harry smirked and propped his hands behind his head.

Jules wandered around the room.

Harry was pressing _Magical Maladies of the Pre-Christian World_ into his memory when he realized his brother had opened a cabinet and was staring at a Pensieve.

“I really wouldn’t stick my nose in Dumbledore’s Pensieve if I were you,” Harry said.

Jules jumped. “You’re the one who suggested eavesdropping!”

“There’s a world of difference between eavesdropping from the base of the stairs and looking into his private memories,” Harry said. “What if it’s a memory of him having sex, hm?”

“Ew!” Jules slammed the cupboard closed. The doors bounced open again while Harry grinned.

“Bastard,” Jules muttered, sitting in a chair across the room.

Harry widened his eyes comically. “You just insulted yourself and your mother with that one, brother mine.”

“Shut up!” Jules threw a quill at him.

Harry would’ve loved to wave a lazy hand and bat it aside with wandless magic filling the air and contempt filling his body language, but unfortunately, that delightful moment would have to wait for a time when he wasn’t hiding his unusual magic abilities, so he caught it out of the air like a Muggle and dropped it contemptuously on the floor instead. It was an acceptable substitute.

They waited in silence not as tense as some silences that had sat between the twins at various points in the last few years. It was still pretty damn tense. Harry made sure to stay completely relaxed and casual-looking because he knew full well it would drive Jules mad sitting there wondering if he was the only one feeling awkward or if Harry was actually this good an actor.

Jules started fidgeting after two minutes.

At three, he stood up and started wandering around.

At seven, he yanked open the Pensieve doors and stared at it again.

“I really wouldn’t,” Harry said. For once he was actually trying to help Jules. Surely Dumbledore’s disgustingly obvious favoritism wouldn’t extend to Jules mucking about in his memories.

“Dumbledore’s really not the type to have… sex in here,” Jules said.

“He’s old, of course he’d like to relive the glory days,” Harry said, but he was too late. He’d barely gotten out the _course_ when Jules leaned down very suddenly and put his face in the Pensieve.

And disappeared.

“Fucking Merlin,” Harry sighed. Well, at least with Jules gone, he could poke around the books a little more obviously. He reached out and tried to pet Fawkes, but the phoenix cawed at him and hopped away. Harry could feel the caw trying to pour shame over his mind—phoenix’s cries could directly affect the soul and therefore the emotions—and he smiled grimly as it skated like oil off the Occlumency shields that he reinforced anytime he went anywhere near Dumbledore. “Nice try, bird.”

Fawkes shook himself indignantly and flew over to the back of Dumbledore’s chair.

Harry shrugged, folded his hands behind his back, and wandered idly around, peering at the titles on various bookshelves and mentally debating whether Jules would exit the Pensieve before Dumbledore got back. If Jules even knew _how_ to exit a Pensieve unaided. Harry only knew because of the time spent reviewing his memories for the trials, and it took a mental effort that left him with a pounding headache.

After what had quite obviously not been a “quick” stroll around the grounds, Harry heard the gargoyle leap aside. He scooted for the chairs by the desk and sat down, arranging himself in an image that could go in the dictionary under _polite, respectful_ , or _impassive_.

Dumbledore stepped inside.

His twinkle dimmed when it landed on Harry instead of Jules.

“Where has your brother… ah,” he said, spying the Pensieve cupboard.

“I did warn him, sir,” Harry said. “As you’ve no doubt noticed, my brother’s not overly fond of listening to my advice.”

“One can hardly blame him,” Dumbledore said.

_Watch me._

Dumbledore studied him for a few seconds. Harry kept his face blank and cool and his eyes empty, fixed on Dumbledore’s nose to limit the man’s passive Legilimency. Whatever else you could say about Dumbledore, he was incredible with magic, and if he used passive or subtle Legilimency, and Occlumens at Harry’s level might not even notice it.

“You remind me…” Dumbledore trailed off, looking unhappy.

“Sir?” Harry said.

Dumbledore shook his head. “Never mind, dear boy, just the wanderings of an old mind. You remind me of an old student of mine… but the name would mean nothing to you. If you’ll excuse me, I ought to go retrieve your brother.”

He disappeared into the Pensieve. Harry rubbed his temples and decided he’d lay money that the person he reminded Dumbledore of was once named Tom Riddle. Bloody fucking hell.

The Headmaster returned with Jules seconds later. Jules staggered away from the Pensieve, looking around wildly while he regained his bearings. “Karkaroff!” he gasped. “And—Bagman! Crouch! The Lestranges…”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore said, smiling genially at him.

Jules blanched. “Sir—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—the cabinet door was kind of open and I just…”

“I quite understand,” Dumbledore said, taking a seat behind his desk.

Harry kept his icy fury completely and utterly locked away. This was getting _ridiculous._ If it had been _him_ snooping in the memories, he’d have gotten detention at the _very_ least!

“Why…” Jules trailed off, still clearly shaken.

Dumbledore unwrapped a lemon drop from his desk. “I believed, in light of recent events, that it would help me to review some of my memories of key players in this little drama in a clearer form… Karkaroff’s trial, conversations with Severus, old encounters with Ludo, Barty Crouch and Bertha Jorkins from their respective times here as a student, Alastor throughout our long acquaintance, the Lestrange and Crouch trial… All are involved in some way or other, and you will find copies of my memories of all of them in the Pensieve at the moment…”

“So Snape _was_ a Death Eater,” Jules said fiercely. “I _knew_ it!”

 _So did I_ , Harry thought, pleased to hear one of his theories vindicated.

Dumbledore prodded the Pensieve. A swirling, indistinct figure rose from it, and spoke with what was unmistakably Snape’s voice: “It’s coming back… Karkaroff’s too… stronger and clearer than ever…”

When they remained silent for a few minutes, Harry out of boredom and Jules out of respect, Dumbledore sighed and pushed the Pensieve away. “You wished to speak with me, Jules?”

“Oh—er—right,” Jules said. “I was in Divination just now, and—I fell asleep.”

He looked quickly at Dumbledore. Harry fought back a sneer at how disgustingly obvious Jules’ desire to please was. If you had to be a Golden retriever puppy about everything you could at least have the decency to try and hide it.

“Quite understandable. Continue,” Dumbledore said with a slight smile. The old man really was a master. Being relatable and forgiving and funny and sharing in ever-so-faint amusement at Trelawney’s sake all at once—and doing it so subtly that it looked more like an accident than anything else… Jules was practically squirming in happiness at being forgiven and having Dumbledore’s fondness aimed at him. If he had a tail, he’d be wagging it.

“Well, I had a dream,” Jules said. “About Voldemort. He’d gotten an owl. Said something about Wormtail’s blunder being repaired, and then that someone was dead, which he seemed to think was a good thing, because Wormtail didn’t get fed to the snake for messing up… and then he laid the Crucio on Wormtail—and it made my scar really hurt, so I woke up.”

Dumbledore was silent.

“Er—that’s all,” Jules said.

“I see,” Dumbledore said quietly. “Has your scar pained you any other time than this incident and the one over the summer?”

“No,” Jules said. “I said after that one I’d tell you if I did.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. It was a tiny movement, but Dumbledore caught it. “Ah,” he said, “I see Jules didn’t inform you of his dream?”

“We’re not in the habit of sending our dream diaries to one another, Professor,” Harry said.

“I dreamed about Voldemort then, too,” Jules said. “He was… he was in a big old house way out in the middle of nowhere, and he was talking to Wormtail then, too. The snake was there,” he added. “This Muggle man saw the snake and got so scared he had a heart attack and died. They were talking about Bertha Jorkins, and needing me for some reason, and another follower of Voldemort’s—someone more capable than Pettigrew.”

“Not a high bar to reach,” Harry said.

Jules snorted.

“That third person must be whoever put our names in the Goblet,” Harry said. “Sounds like he’s got a bit of a staffing problem at the moment. And that pretty nicely confirms the whole Jorkins thing.” He looked grimly up at Dumbledore. “The Death Eaters are really on the move, aren’t they? It’s not just Prophet hype.”

“No,” Dumbledore said heavily. “I’m afraid not.”

Harry frowned. Hermione. Justin. He had friends who might be in danger. He should talk to Theo about arranging emergency Portkeys for them—Nott Manor was maybe not the best place for them to go, though; they should arrange it for 12 Grimmauld Place. And he’d write Sirius and have him have Kreacher prepare some of the empty guest bedrooms. Veronica Butler would bear watching too. He’d have to warn the girl and make arrangements to collect her over the summer if things got rough. Not that he thought it would get that rough that quickly, but fortune favored the prepared.

 “And do you have any theories on why Jules’ scar is hurting?” Harry said, assuming that the answer was yes.

Dumbledore hesitated. Jules fidgeted with his robes and wouldn’t look up.

“Ah,” Harry said, grinning without an ounce of amusement. “Let me rephrase—any theories you’re willing to share with the Slytherin Potter?”

“Only a theory,” Jules said, looking hard at Dumbledore. It wasn’t a glare. It wasn’t even a challenge. More like a firm but deferential communication that he wanted to tell.

Dumbledore sighed. “It is my belief that Jules’ scar pains him when Lord Voldemort is near him, or feeling a particularly strong surge of hatred or anger.”

Harry nodded. “The failed curse,” he said. “Magical curse scars aren’t things to mess around with, are they?”

“No,” Dumbledore agreed.

“But… if he Crucio’d Pettigrew…” Harry turned to Jules. “Did you see a wand?”

“Yeah,” Jules said, “yeah, he was holding one both times…”

“When did he get a body?”

Dumbledore pursed his lips and Jules looked unsettled. “We don’t know,” Jules said.

Harry kept his eyes on Dumbledore and nothing about the man’s bearing suggested that that was anything less than the truth, though he was a damn good actor so that was hard to prove.

“The years leading to Voldermort’s initial rise were marked with disappearances,” Dumbledore said. “Bertha Jorkins disappeared in the place where Voldemort was known to be last. Mr. Crouch has disappeared on these very grounds. There was a third disappearance, of a Muggle man from the village where Voldemort’s father grew up, though the Ministry discounts Muggle news outlets and has ignored my warnings… Then there is this business with you both being in the Tournament… Speaking of which, Mr. Potter, what are you doing here? Unless I missed you switching into Divination?”

Harry smiled tightly. “Hardly, sir, I’m much too fond of Professor Babbling and Professor Vector might actually curse me if I attempted to drop Arithmancy. I was using the restroom, sir, and when I saw Jules looking so unsettled, I had to check on him.” He looked down, contrite. “I know I should’ve have stayed this long, it’s just…”

“It affects him, too,” Jules said. Harry thought he could get used to having his brother defend him.

“I suppose,” Dumbledore said, the twinkle springing back to life. It _had_ to be a spell; no one’s eyes did that naturally. “In that case, you’d both best be off… Good luck on the third task,” he added with a wink.

The Potter twins thanked him and left the Headmaster’s office, pausing at the bottom of the stairs.

“You just lied to Albus Dumbledore,” Jules said.

“You going to spill?” Harry said, raising an eyebrow.

Jules snorted. “Not if you tell me what those notebooks are the rest of you lot are always writing in.”

It only threw Harry for a second. He should get used to Jules being more observant than people gave him credit for. Occasionally. “Communication,” he said, pulling his own out. It could be a peace offering, of sorts. Forgiveness of James was forever out of reach but he still thought some kind of reconciliation between him and Jules was possible.

“Like… letters?” Jules moved closer, fascinated despite himself.

Harry flipped the journal open to a silver page labeled _Neville Longbottom_ , careful to keep Jules from seeing the one with Malfoy’s name on it. That wouldn’t go over well.

“Watch,” he said.

_HP_

_I’m showing Jules the journal_

“What now?” Jules said.

Harry shrugged and hopped up on a convenient windowsill, putting the journal between his feet and tugging out a book of archaic potions from the Black library, cover glamoured to look like The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Five, which Harry had mastered a year ago. “Now we wait for him to respond. The crystal lights up when I have a message, and it hits me with a light stinger on the hand,” he explained.

Jules warily settled in on the same windowsill.

It took a truly heroic effort to concentrate on the book with Jules bouncing his knee and looking all around. Fortunately, Neville only took a few minutes to respond.

_NL_

_What? Why?_

_HP_

_He asked me about them. Noticed that we carry them around a lot. I’m building bridges._

_NL_

_Got it_

Harry closed the journal to erase the words and then opened it again.

_HP_

_How’s the Herbology essay coming?_

He spun the journal around so Jules could see the page.

“What—” Jules began, but then he stopped and his mouth fell open.

Harry tilted the journal back and read Neville’s response upside down.

_NL_

_I finished last night. Yours?_

_HP_

_Also done, thanks. That’s all_

_NL_

_You’re ridiculous_

_HP_

_Thanks_

“How does it work?” Jules said.

“Runes.” Harry closed the journal again and tucked it back in his bag along with his book. “I don’t know how exactly. I like Ancient Runes but I’m nowhere near good enough to understand something of this level.” That should cover his bases; he didn’t want anyone knowing how far ahead he really was.

“It’s, um, a clever idea.”

 

Harry gave Jules a journal, linked only to Harry’s, on condition of him swearing an oath on his magic that he wouldn’t speak of or show the journal to anyone who didn’t have one. It was a minor oath, so while too many, or oaths that you had to be mindful of all the time like the Unspeakables’ confidentiality oaths could drag on your magic, this one wouldn’t.

Jules weighed it in his hands and agreed.

They didn’t use it much, but when they did things were civil.

Harry realized he was harboring a stubborn, stupid flame of real hope that he and his brother could have some imitation of a normal relationship. 

 

“This is a terrible idea.”

“It’ll work,” Harry said.

“If you get caught…”

Theo shoved Pansy. “He won’t get caught, he’s not stupid. Or careless.”

“Ready?” Harry said.

He and Theo raised their wands in unison and cast Notice-Me-Not Charms on Harry.

The cracked-egg feeling dribbled down his head, shoulders, body, and legs. He checked that it included his broom and the camera around his neck—both items had turned translucent and difficult to see just like Harry’s clothes and body.

“All right,” he said with a grin none of them would see. “Let’s do this.”

Daphne barely glanced up from the supplies she was spreading across the lawn. Harry’d brewed the potion for developing the pictures but she’d supplied the camera, the recipe, and the expertise, thanks to going to fashion shoots with her mum. “Take as many as you can in case I muck this up,” she said. “I’ve never done it without supervision before.”

“You’ll be fine,” Harry said, and kicked off the ground.

Merlin, he missed Quidditch. The freedom, the thrill… There was nothing quite like soaring over the grounds, unsupported, relying on his own skill and nothing else to stay in the air. Bletchley had caved on unofficial practices after the Yule Ball and Harry didn’t have much time to fly on his own.

 _Focus_ , Harry told himself, and leaned forward, shooting off towards the pitch.

He zoomed over the edge. Bored Ministry workers sprawled at four points around the pitch, keeping watch to make sure no one sneaked in to look at the hedge maze or the things in it. Others bustled around inside doing Merlin knew what. Harry’s Notice-Me-Not wasn’t good enough for him to get a close-up look at the things in the maze but he could take a peek from above.

Or a picture.

Harry grinned to himself as he came to a neat hover above the pitch. His Firebolt stayed steady as he hooked his legs around the handle instead of leaving them on the foot rests and swung upside down.

Slowly, Harry let go of the handle with both hands and straightened until he was holding on with just his legs and stretched out pointing downwards.

Wind tugged at him. With his hands off the broom he couldn’t really correct the drift, but it was slow and he had some limited control, so he managed to stay in more or less the same position as he fumbled around with a camera he couldn’t see. There was the lens… this was the strap, that was the viewfinder, which meant the button to take a picture was right—there, good, he had it pointing the right way…

Harry aimed the camera straight downward and took several pictures. The faint _click_ after each one was the only indication he had that the camera was even working, since he couldn’t see it as more than a glasslike blob in his equally glasslike hands. It was hard to detect even the edges of the camera with the background so far away.

He looped the strap back around his neck, tucked the camera itself into a pocket of his robes to keep it secure, and curled up towards his broom. One hand snagged the broom handle and Harry heaved himself back into a normal position, adjusted his feet, and banked hard back to his friends.

“Harry?” Blaise said, squinting at him.

Harry canceled his spell. “It’s me.”

Theo canceled his as well, and Harry and the broom and camera flickered back into opacity. “Here you go,” he said, tossing the camera to Daphne.

The others clustered around to shield her from sight—it was a warm April day, and many students were taking advantage of the clear skies and sun to venture outside—while Daphne popped out the film and laid it flat in the potion that would develop it into a moving picture. She put it facedown in a thin metal tray, cast a stasis charm, and slid the whole thing into a box. “Keep it steady; the stasis charm will only do so much to keep it from spilling,” she said, handing the whole mess up to Pansy.

“Thank you,” Harry said, pulling Daphne to her feet. “Best of girlfriends.”

“I’d better be your _only_ girlfriend,” she said, glaring.

“Of course,” Harry agreed, smirking.

He, Theo, and Daphne all hopped on brooms and joined him in the air. Blaise and Pansy didn’t love flying and stayed on the ground while the other three did loops and played tag over the Black Lake. It was as good an excuse as any for them to be out here with brooms, especially with Quidditch canceled this year.

They flew for about thirty minutes, and landed, windswept, back on the ground. Pansy and Blaise packed up their Gobstones set; Theo, known for being rather bookish, carried the flat box with the developing film under a stack of books to disguise what it was. Blaise carried Theo’s broom. Daphne and Harry tossed theirs over their shoulders and held hands as they walked back up to the castle.

Justin saw them in the entrance hall. He narrowed his eyes, said something to the Hufflepuffs he was with, and peeled off.

“Hey, Justin,” Theo said with a grin.

“You’re all wearing your smug faces,” Justin said. “What just happened?”

“I have a smug face?” Harry said, slightly peeved. He prided himself on being difficult to read.

Justin shrugged. “Kind of. Don’t worry, I can probably only see it ‘cause I know you.”

“This is one of those things you’re maybe better off not knowing,” Pansy advised.

“Slytherin business?” Justin said.

They exchanged glances. “Yes,” Blaise said, which was technically true, Harry supposed. Everyone involved was a Slytherin. That made it Slytherin business.

“Huh.” Justin wasn’t buying it; he grinned exasperatedly. “Morally questionable business, then, and you don’t want to start an argument?”

“That’s about the size of it,” Theo said carelessly.

“All right, keep your secrets,” Justin said easily. “Dueling club tomorrow?”

“As always.” Harry grinned back at him. Jutsin really was the best of Hufflepuffs.

He wandered off to his House mates with a muttered “Slytherins” that Harry barely heard.

Snickering, all five snakes descended to the dungeons.

They put brooms away, collected textbooks, slipped out of the dungeons by the back passage they’d been using since second year, and congregated in one of the many forgotten dungeon bolt holes. There was quite a warren of storage rooms, classrooms, corners, tunnels, and shadowed meeting places down here with which no one but the Slytherins bothered to familiarize themselves. The room they used wasn’t as comfortable or secure as the Knights Room but going there ran the risk of one of their lion or badger friends tracking them down and no one wanted a fight about the morals of cheating. Harry would tell them later. After he’d developed the film and gotten together a map of the maze, when there would be no point in them arguing.

“Here we are.” Pansy slid the box onto the table.

Daphne pried the lid off and lifted the tray out. Theo vanished the box as she set it down and cast a quick spell.

“It’s ready,” Daphne said.

She and Pansy levitated the film out of the potion. Theo cast a drying charm when Daphne directed him to and she laid the pictures down on the floor.

 _“Lumos auto_ ,” Blaise said, and a ball of wizard fire popped into life where he willed it, hovering up by the ceiling. Its yellow-white light illuminated the photographs nicely.

“This one’s the best,” Daphne said after a moment. “Clear shot, not too blurred by… was the wind pushing you around?”

“I was hanging upside down from my broom,” Harry said, shifting a few photographs around. “Didn’t have much control.”

Pansy picked up the one Daphne had pointed out. “We can work with this,” she said.

Harry hit it with a _geminio_ and tucked the original photographs into his bag, and then they took the copy of the good picture and Theo cast a quick _“Engorgio_.” Sticking charms tacked it up on the wall and Harry got out one of the twins’ smuggled Muggle things—this time a silver Sharpie—to mark up the map.

For an hour, they argued and worked, looking for the shortest route from the entrance of the maze to its center. It was ridiculously complicated and Harry was very sure they’d magically expanded the whole area to bigger than just the Quidditch pitch.

“You could just summon your broom like Jules did and fly over it all,” Daphne said in frustration at one point.

“Copy the Other Potter?” Blaise sneered.

“They added a caveat that you’re not allowed to do that,” Pansy said absently, bent over a duplicate of the duplicate photograph with a second silver marker. “Overheard a few of the Ministry people when I was down there yesterday…”

“Why were you down by the pitch, Pansy dearest?” Blaise said.

She didn’t look up. “Don’t flirt with me, Blaise, I’m not interested and we all know how taken you are with your Ravenclaw lady. I was gathering information. Obviously.”

Harry wrapped an arm around Daphne’s shoulders and smirked. “Playing the innocent damsel worried about your friend not surviving, hm?”

“Little Hufflepuff worried about _anyone_ surviving, actually,” she said. “Quick glamour on my robes and tie, and boom.”

Daphne grinned.

 

“Have a fun flight, boy?”

Harry’s steps slowed.

Neville trailed off with a worried look. “Harry…”

“It’s okay,” Harry said softly, and turned to face Moody with a pleasant expression. “I did, thank you, Professor.”

“Is it a crime for students to take their brooms out?” Hermione challenged, hair crackling.

Pansy poked her from behind. The four of them were on their way up to the Knights Room, where Harry was going to show his non-Slytherin friends the photograph and deal with any moral issues they brought up. He didn’t like keeping secrets from people he trusted. The camera plan had been concealed long enough. But if Moody was going to make this an issue…

He hadn’t been able to practice _obliviate_ on a human yet, only rats, and he wasn’t at all sure of his chances.

“Nah,” Moody said with a craggy grin. “Just might have thought Potter’d be preparing for the third task.”

“Everyone needs some time off,” Neville said.

“Right you are, Longbottom,” Moody said, “right you are… You fly well, Potter. Same for Nott and Greengrass.”

“Thank you,” Harry said. He wasn’t sure at all where Moody was going with this conversation. If Moody’d been a Slytherin, then—but he was a Gryffindor and by all accounts he wasn’t one of the rare Gryffindors who could match a Slytherin for word games. He wasn’t a Dumbledore.

Pansy frowned and said sweetly, “I didn’t see you on the grounds, Professor, were you out for a walk?”

Harry could’ve hugged her.

“This eye of mine sees a long way,” Moody said, tapping his temple with a smile that didn’t sit well on his face. It was the most obvious and longest-lasting of the occasional flashes Harry had filed away of Moody’s expression not matching him somehow. “A good long way, through lots of things normal people can’t see past.” He let out a barking laugh. “Comes in dead useful hunting the Dark.”

“I’m sure,” Pansy said, her voice so sweet now that it bordered on poisonous.

“Hope you had a nice flight, Potter,” Moody said maliciously, and stumped away.

They waited for a few seconds.

“Okay, _what_ was that about?” Hermione said, narrowing her eyes at Pansy and Harry. “Did you lot do something today?”

“I am _offended_ ,” Harry said.

Neville sighed as they started walking again. “Yeah, he did something.”

“Was Moody really…”

Pansy trailed off, but Harry got the message. “I would say so, if he were a Slytherin,” he said slowly. “But—that was _really_ subtle for a Gryffindor. Most of them would’ve just made some crack about cameras if they kept it quiet at all. I mean, technically, it’s cheating… if he means what I think he did.”

“Cheating…” Hermione said. “You—you flew over the maze?”

Harry shot her an annoyed look.

She threw up her hands but stayed quiet until they got to the Knights Room.

Justin accepted what they’d done easily, but it took ten minutes to talk Hermione and Neville into accepting the photographs. Then they moved onto mapping the maze and arguments about whether it would be possible to use _reducto_ or _confringo_ to blast one’s way through the hedges. The whole time Harry was turning over the odd conversation with Moody.

It didn’t fit. _Moody_ didn’t fit. Harry couldn’t chalk all the oddities up to him just being an uncommonly pragmatic Light soldier. Anyone who was that dedicated to the rule of law would’ve at least been chilly with Dumbledore after the trials—unless he’d known all along, but then again, it would’ve taken some hefty blackmail to keep him silent during the Sirius debacle thirteen years ago.

Maybe that was it—Dumbledore had something on him, something big enough to keep Moody in line even though he’d turned in an old friend for taking bribes as an Auror in one of his last years in the corps, according to old Prophet clippings from the library. It would have to be something _really_ big, then—and there was no way Jules knew about it. He was too young and too terrible at keeping secrets.

At any rate, Harry supposed, it was unlikely Moody would be around longer than one year. No one had done so in absolutely ages. There probably was something to the rumor that the job was cursed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 8/4/18: I had ch 18 and 19 posted on accident because I got this one up in a hurry. 19 is now separated and in its own chapter with minor edits.


	19. The Third Task

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So turns out I'm an idiot and accidentally posted 2 chapters at once last time. Here's ch 19, separated from the previous chapter. 20 will be up shortly.

The upper years were predictably delighted with his map and fell on it with gusto. Harry got good at blasting spells and learned all about Hagrid’s latest horror, blast-ended skrewts, from Blaise and Pansy. He practiced magic at every available moment and tried to chase his friends away to study for exams.

They weren’t having it. “We’re near the top of the class,” Blaise said indifferently, “and at least we’ll all get O’s in Defense and Charms at this rate.”

“We’re also your friends,” Neville said, kicking Blaise in the ankle. “Of course we’re going to help. Someone’s trying to _kill you_. This is their last shot.”

He at least managed to convince them to draw up a rotation so he wasn’t constantly surrounded by people. His friends were great. Five years ago, Harry would never have believed it if someone told him he’d have so many people he trusted, but it still grated on him to have someone with him _all the damn time_. It was good for safety. Still irritating.

Pansy and Blaise and Neville drilled him on the magical creatures he might face. Neville also reviewed for his Herbology exams by going over all the plants he thought they’d consider putting out there. Daphne’s turn on the rotation involved snogging more often than not but Harry resolutely refused to let himself get distracted from the spell research and arithmancy and runes work they focused on. When it was Theo and/or Hermione with him, they frequently slipped into an abandoned classroom and took the illegal Black library Portkey home to Grimmauld Place. Sirius would come say hello and chat for a bit and Kreacher would bring snacks and they’d spend an hour or two combing the bookshelves and practicing magic, often spells that you’d never find in Hogwarts.

After one such session, they Portkeyed back to a horrifically dusty classroom down the transfiguration hall. Hermione lost her grip on one of the books in her arms, staggered backward trying to catch it, and succeeded just as she slammed into the window.

Theo laughed. “An athlete, you are not,” he said, dusting off her shoulder.

“You all right there?” Harry said with a smirk, tucking the key back under his robes on its cord.

“Yes, fine,” Hermione said absently. “What on earth is she doing?”

The boys joined her at the window.

Lavender Brown, Seamus Finnegan, Ernie Macmillan, and Susan Bones were clustered in the shade of a tree on the grounds below. Finnegan, Bones, and Macmillan were looking shiftily around in a terrible attempt to hide the fact that they were keeping watch. Brown appeared to be speaking into a walkie-talkie in her hand, except she wasn’t holding anything that Harry could see.

“Weird,” he muttered.

“Yes,” Hermione said.

“All people on my blacklist, too,” he said.

Theo smirked.

“Do you actually have a list?” Hermione asked, turning away from the window.

Harry shrugged. “In my head.”

“Slytherins,” she sighed.

 

Sirius and Harry spoke nearly every night via the mirrors, even if it was only brief. Harry heard all about Sirius’ new acquaintance with Tate and Laurens’ circle of friends. “Haven’t been on any dates yet,” Sirius said. “I don’t think I’m quite… ready to handle that. But… maybe someday.”

“You’ll get there,” Harry reassured him.

Sirius shook off his melancholy. “Yeah, I s’pose—how’d Neville like that book you brought back?”

“Didn’t even comment on half the plants in it being illegal in Great Britain,” Harry said with a smirk.

“Good, Gryffindors nowadays are far too willing to follow the rules,” Sirius laughed.

 

Jules’ friends stayed away from Harry’s, and vice versa. Even the Gryffindor-Slytherin-Hufflepuff tensions regarding the champions died down as exam stress swept the rest of the school. Harry enjoyed the relief from Gryffindors hexing him at random and Hufflepuffs indignantly fluffing their feathers with nasty little whispers when he walked by.

If nothing else, in less than a week, the stupid Tournament would be over, and he could return to areas of study that actually interested him.

The benefit of this was that he now had some genuine allies among the soon-to-be-seventh-years as well as international contacts.

 

_Daphne_

Hermione’s face tipped her off.

Their eyes met across the Great Hall as Hermione stuffed a newspaper into her bag, and Daphne knew something was going on, and that it had to do with Skeeter.

She hid a scowl. Daphne was usually hiding a scowl or at least a frown. She was a Slytherin and Slytherins gave those around them as little leverage as possible, and displeasure was always leverage.

Her own copy of the Prophet was delivered less than a minute later by a post owl. She unfolded it and discovered a large picture of her boyfriend and his brother on the front page. Contrary to popular belief, they were far from identical; it cost Daphne no effort whatsoever to distinguish one from the other even though the photographs were black-and-white and their eyes couldn’t be used to tell them apart. Jules’ chin was squarer, his face broader, his hair wilder, his expression horrifically dull and Gryffindorish and, in this particular moment, slightly befuddled.

 

**_The Potter Twins: Disturbed and Dangerous?_ **

_By Laruen Caldwell_

_The brother of the Boy Who Lived is unstable and possibly dangerous_ , writes Lauren Caldwell, special correspondent. _But alarming new evidence has recently come to light suggesting that the Boy Who Lived himself may be less than mentally sound. The twins’ strange behavior certainly casts doubts upon their suitability to compete in the Triwizard Tournament, or even to attend Hogwarts School._

 _Julian Potter, the_ Daily Prophet _can exclusively reveal_ , _regularly collapses at school, and is often heard to complain of pain in the scar on his forehead (relic of the curse with which You-Know-Who attempted to kill him). Last Monday, midway through a Divination lesson, your_ Daily Prophet _reporter witnessed the younger Potter twin storming from the class, claiming that his scar was hurting too badly to continue studying._

_It is possible, say top experts at St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, that Potter’s brain was affected by the attack inflicted upon him by You-Know-Who, and that his insistence that his scar pains him is an expression of deep-seated confusion._

_“He might even be pretending,” said one specialist. “This could be a plea for attention.”_

_The same St. Mungo’s experts on curse scars postulated that the elder Potter twin was affected by the Dark magics unleashed the night the Killing Curse rebounded on You-Know-Who. “That much Dark magic in one place is a potent force, especially for infants,” one anonymous medical provider said. “We’ve had plenty of opportunity to study the effects on Julian Potter, but Hadrian’s lack of contact with the wizarding world means that the only chance we got to check him over was the week after Halloween, 1981. Growing up in an abusive household might have worsened the side effects. I wouldn’t be surprised to find the boy has a predisposition for Dark magic.”_

_Now, many of us would likely find it shocking that a child from the Potter line of all families might be inclined toward the Dark, but information has recently come to light that shakes this assumption. Despite several Wizengamot members working to keep it quiet, the Triwizard Tournament has given this consultant an unprecedented opportunity to speak directly to Hogwarts students and learn about the Potter twins from primary sources._

_“Hadrian Potter can speak Parseltongue,” says Ernie Macmillan, a Hogwarts fourth year. “There were a lot of attacks on students a couple of years ago—those families with children at Hogwarts will surely recall the opening of the Chamber of Secrets—and many people thought Potter was behind them after they saw him lose his temper at a dueling club and set a snake on another boy. It was all hushed up. Those of us who tried to share the story were stonewalled at every turn.”_

_“He’s always hated Jules,” added Seamus Finnegan, another fourth-year student. “We all—Jules’ friends—we all think he’s jealous. Potter grew up with Muggles, right, and he hates them, too—and he kept the Parseltongue a secret. But he was there at the scene of the first attack second year and he was fighting with one of the girls who got attacked later, right before she was Petrified—plus everyone who was attacked was Muggle-born, and Potter’s in Slytherin. Everyone knows Slytherins are bigoted against Muggle-borns. All of us were scared of him.”_

_Parseltongue, the ability to converse with snakes, has long been considered a Dark Art. Indeed, the most famous Parselmouth in our times is none other than You-Know-Who himself. A member of the Dark Force Defense League, who wished to remain unnamed, stated that he would regard any Parselmouth “as worthy of investigation. Frankly, I would be highly suspicious of anybody who could converse with snakes, as serpents are often used in the worst kinds of Dark magic, and are historically associated with evildoers.” Similarly, “Slytherin House has long been known to associate with Dark magic and bigotry and forbidden rituals. A snake speaker from that House would come under even greater suspicion.”_

_Albus Dumbledore should surely consider whether such boys as these are the right sort of students to champion Hogwarts in the Triwizard Tournament. Julian Potter is seemingly unstable and suffering mental side effects of the curse that struck him in his youth; it would surely be a great blow to the wizarding world to lose our symbol of hope simply because Albus Dumbledore foolishly allowed him in harm’s way. On the other hand, many people fear that Hadrian Potter might become so jealous and desperate to beat his brother that he will resort to the Dark Arts in the the third Triwizard task, which takes place this evening._

 

It was, Daphne decided, an excellent jab at the Potter twins, and sure to garner some real royalties.

She and Hermione locked eyes across the Great Hall again. People were reading the paper and the buzz of interest had gone up even higher than the levels of excitement that had swept the students that morning in preparation for the third task.

Hermione frowned.

“Don’t do it,” Daphne muttered. She knew the look crossing Hermione’s face; it was the steely determination she got before she did something horribly Gryffindorish.

Harry, sitting next to Daphne, paused with his goblet of water halfway to his lips. “Prophet?” he said.

“Damn you,” Daphne said, shoving the paper at him.

Harry flicked it open and started reading.

Daphne met Pansy’s eyes. Pansy raised a single eyebrow. With all honesty, Daphne suspected Pansy had a secret crush on Harry, but her friend had never acted on it and Harry didn’t seem aware of it so Daphne never brought it up even though it crossed her mind whenever she saw Pansy and Harry together. She firmly pushed those thoughts out of her mind and telegraphed a question in Pansy’s direction: _did you know about this?_

A minute shake of the head.

Theo and Blaise didn’t stop eating, but Blaise’s easy elegance and Theo’s bored amusement got a little more studied. Down the table, the younger lot were shooting unsubtle looks at the fourth years. Daphne sneered at them. Harry liked them, but _she_ did not have to, and with the exceptions of Evalyn Travers and Alex Rowle and Astoria, she didn’t.

Harry and Theo were the only people she knew who came close to Daphne’s level of general dislike for people.

Across the Great Hall, Hermione stood up.

“Shit,” Daphne sighed, tearing a piece of toast in half. It did not help with her frustration in the slightest, and she really wanted to shred something larger, like a stone wall or possibly a person. She hoped someone would piss her off and give her an excuse to turn their knees backwards and send them off to Pomfrey’s.

Chin held stubbornly high, Hermione marched up the Gryffindor table. Around the Hufflepuffs and the Ravenclaws, ignoring all the pathetic students. Into Slytherin territory.

She’d been sitting near the doors, and that meant she walked around the base of the Hall and then up the Slytherin table towards the staff table, right past all the upper years. Conversation dimmed slightly as she passed. Looks were aimed her way. The older Slytherin set at least had the tact to not shut up and stare outright but there were reactions.

Hestia Carrow in particular seemed interested. She was one of the more tolerable people in Slytherin, but Daphne would not hesitate to gut her if she reacted on her built-in bigotry and went after Hermione. Some of the old families were like Daphne’s, and treated Muggle-borns just fine once they’d proved their willingness to integrate. Some of the old families were like Draco’s and had distorted mistrust into outright bigotry over time. Daphne was not sure to which category the Carrows belonged.

Hestia, however, did nothing more than watch without seeming to as Hermione elbowed her way into a seat between Theo and Pansy.

“That absolute bloody _cow_ ,” Hermione snarled. She didn’t seem to even register the oddness or awkwardness of a lion in the snake section—her usual defense mechanism for awkwardness was to resolutely pretend it didn’t exist.

“It says Lauren Caldwell,” Harry pointed out.

Hermione scoffed. “Pen name, I’m sure of it.”

“How would you know that?” Draco said, staring at her.

“It was a guess, but you’ve just confirmed it,” Hermione said.

“Pen name,” Pansy agreed. “Mum told me about it once. It’s a secret.”

“She’s really gone off on me, hasn’t she?” Harry said conversationally. “She’s quite good at implying I’m a budding Dark wizard… and dodging my threats of legal action if she prints false things about me.”

Daphne wondered how many of them had noticed the white-knuckled grip he had on his fork, which was the only emotional reaction he’d shown. She knew full well he didn’t like people touching him unexpectedly, especially when he was emotionally keyed up, so she just lightly bumped her ankle against his under the table and then pulled her foot back immediately.

“I wonder how she knew about the Other Potter passing out,” Pansy mused. “I heard about it, of course…”

“That was the Divination episode, right?” Harry said.

Hermione nodded. “Divination’s a load of hogwash if you ask me, but Parvati and Lavender practically worship Trelawney, you should _hear_ them go on about the _Inner Eye_ ,” she said with vicious mockery. “So of course I got the whole tale.”

“I told you about Jules’ dream, didn’t I?” Harry said.

“In way more detail than I ever thought I would get on the Other Potter’s dreams,” Blaise sneered. Theo snickered.

“I wish I knew how she _does_ it,” Hermione burst out. “Dean was going on about bugging the other day, as if bugs work in… Hogwarts… _Oh!”_

She stared off into space for several seconds. Daphne knew that expression, too. It was the epiphany one.

“What?” Theo said suspiciously after several silent seconds.

Hermione slowly raised a hand and ran it through her hair, and then held her hand to her mouth as if speaking into it.

Harry tensed. “You don’t think… No time to write Sirius, is there?”

“I do think,” Hermione said. “And no.”

Harry half-rose.

“No— _no_ , Harry Potter, you stay there,” Hermione snapped, “you’ve got the task to focus on—I think I know—no one would be able to see… even Moody… and she’d have been able to get onto the window ledge in Divination, Lavender said it was open… but she’s _definitely_ not allowed… I have her!”

“I’m coming,” Daphne said immediately. Harry was her boyfriend, Hermione was her friend, Skeeter had hurt both of them, and that was the end of it.

Hermione glanced at her, then at Harry.

“Go,” Harry said. His eyes were still narrowed in thought. He’d clearly followed Hermione’s epiphany, at least in part; Daphne had rarely seen his face that calculating and focused outside of duels.

She and Hermione both nodded briefly. Daphne left the remains of her toast, snatched her bag, and stalked off. Harry always sat with his back to the wall, which meant Daphne and Hermione were on opposite sides of the Slytherin table; they kept pace with one another and ignored the curious looks from the Slytherin upper years and the rest of the school as they walked. Daphne turned all the information over in her head. She’d no idea what _bugging_ meant, but clearly this was something to do with insects… and Hermione’s hair… and Skeeter being places she shouldn’t… they knew from Harry after the incident on the stairs with the egg that Moody could see through Invisibility Cloaks, and he’d said in class that a Disillusionment Charm wouldn’t fool him either, so something more foolproof than either…

Bugs. Sneaking. Something illegal.

Sirius Black.

Daphne’s mouth actually fell open for half a second just as she met Hermione at the doors to the Great Hall. It was insane—but it was the only thing that made sense.

“Animagus?” she hissed as the doors slammed behind them.

Hermione’s eyes glittered, and she took off at a run for the library. “We’ve only got ten minutes before History of Magic, we’ve got to _move_ —”

“The hair?” Daphne asked, keeping pace easily. Hermione did not do athletics but Daphne liked being in good shape and she ran regularly and had been doing so for over a year.

Hermione reached for her hair, which was usually tamer now that Daphne and Pansy tag-teamed her about hair charms. It helped that charms were more efficient than Muggle methods and counted as practicing magic, which meant she didn’t consider it such a waste. “Viktor picked a beetle out of my hair—after the second task—when he was asking about me visiting him,” she huffed. “And—Ronald said—he overheard Maxime and Hagrid talking—in the gardens after the ball—and Hagrid confessed being a half-giant—there was a beetle on the statue that flew at Jules and near got stuck in _his_ —hair—Jules said it was an insect’s buzzing wings near the window that put him to sleep in Divination…”

“Brilliant,” Daphne breathed. It was illegal but so _brilliant_. No _wonder_ Skeeter always knew the best scoops.

“Just—need—research—to confirm,” Hermione said.

Daphne heaved open the library door and shot such a vicious glare at Pince that for the first time in her memory the librarian withheld her usual tirade about running in the library. Hermione bolted for the section on self-transfiguration with Daphne on her heels.

 

_Harry_

His mind was still spinning with the implications of Rita Skeeter, animagus, when Snape arrived at their table not five seconds later. “Potter,” he sneered. “The champions are congregating in the receiving chamber off the Great Hall after breakfast.”

“Has the task been rescheduled?” Harry said.

“The champions’ families are invited to watch the third task,” Snape said. “The judges have decided to offer you a chance to say your goodbyes. The third task is historically the hardest, and the deadliest.”

He swept away, cloak billowing.

“Right ray of sunshine, our Head of House,” Theo commented.

Harry was already standing, excited to see Sirius. “Get Justin to explain what bugging means,” he said. “Or Anthony. I’ll see you lot later; good luck on exams.”

He ignored the rest of his breakfast—he could go beg some off the house-elves later if he got hungry.

Jules ran into him, literally, just as Harry started to open the door out of the Hall.

“Ow—dammit, Jules,” Harry muttered, glaring at his brother.

Jules glared back. “Excuse _me_ ,” he said. “What’d Hermione want?”

“To commiserate about Skeeter’s latest round of horror,” Harry said.

“That wasn’t Skeeter!”

“I’m fairly sure you’ve got a brain bouncing ‘round in there somewhere, brother dear, you really ought to use it,” Harry said. “It’s a pen name.”

“I’m not stupid!”

Harry shrugged. That was when he realized the champions’ families included James. Sirius and James, in one room—that was going to be entertaining.

He opened the door for Jules with a mocking half-bow and stalked in on his heels—and froze.

Delacour was already with her family. The sister clutched the hand of a tall and stunning woman who looked like Fleur plus thirty years; next to them stood a round red-nosed beaming man several inches shorter than his wife. Amos Diggory and his wife lurked by the fireplace; Diggory shot Harry an ugly look, but the son wasn’t here yet. There was a dark-haired couple who were surely Mr. and Mrs. Krum—and James, standing to hug Jules with a warm grin not five feet away from Harry—

And no Sirius.

Harry’s stomach dropped somewhere around his toes. He almost staggered. And here he’d thought—he’d thought—

“Hadrian?” Viktor said uncertainly.

Harry spun around and realized he’d stopped just inside the doors; he was blocking Viktor’s entrance. “Sorry,” he said, hitching his mask back into place almost instantly. “Excuse me—it appears my godfather couldn’t make it, I’ll get out of the way…”

“I’m afraid Lord Black won’t be coming,” Diggory called out across the room with an arrogant smile.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “How unfortunate.”

“Looks like Sirius’ loyalty issues stuck around, eh?” James said, quietly enough that only Jules and Viktor and Harry could hear.

“Looks like your horrible personality’s turned him off to _all_ the Potters,” Harry retorted without thinking, and swept out of the room in what he belatedly realized was an imitation of Snape.

He looked around wildly. He needed—he needed to get out of here—back to his dorm where he was _safe_ —somewhere that wasn’t this _exposed_ —

A door winked into existence at his right.

Harry opened it without thinking.

Only when it sealed behind him did he realize that opening randomly appearing doors in Hogwarts was a terrible idea. He raised his wand and willed it alight—

Nothing jumped out at him. The stairway was narrow, twisting, dusty, and dry.

He tried the door. It cracked open on the entrance hall. He wasn’t locked in, then.

 _Might as well_ , Harry thought sourly, and set off resolutely.

The stairway followed no consistent path or pattern; it even ended a few times and flattened out or angled back up for ten or twenty steps as if the passage had dipped under some obstacle. His sense of direction disappeared within three minutes. Harry found himself not even caring. He was too caught up with the bitterness—and anger—he’d thought he had someone. An adult—who _cared_.

But Sirius hadn’t even bothered to show up.

 _You can’t trust anyone_ , the most Slytherin part of him whispered. _You can’t trust anyone to care, or to be there for you—not Sirius, not Daphne, not Hermione, not Theo or Neville or Blaise. People are self-serving and you_ disturb _them and they. Don’t. Care._

“Never again,” he whispered into the dark passageway. “Never again.”

It came as almost a surprise when the tunnel ended in a plan stone wall. It turned into an archway just as Harry spotted it. He stepped through and watched it disappear behind him…

And realized he was standing in the Slytherin dorms. His own room, in fact. Right next to his bed.

Dully, he realized that this was what it must have meant that the castle would favor the Heir of Slytherin. “Thank you,” he said, because he paid his debts, and then he crawled into bed.

He could feel Eriss a good way away. Hunting, probably, out on the grounds or in the Forest. He fell back on his bed and shut his curtains with a flick of his wand and closed his eyes.

Except he couldn’t relax fully because where was that light coming from?

Annoyed, Harry sat up and looked around. It took a few seconds to pick out the light source as coming from under his pillow.

He almost ignored it. The only thing under his pillow was the mirror and Sirius was the _last_ person he wanted to talk to right now.

Something made him reach out for it even as he hated himself for the concession, for the _weakness_.

“Sirius Black,” he said.

The mirror instantly resolved from a reflection of himself to an image of Sirius’ face. “Harry,” Sirius said, looking panicked. “Harry—I’m so sorry, Merlin, I’ve been waiting for an hour, I hoped you’d go back to your dorm and find the mirror—they wouldn’t let me in, said I’m not a blood relation so I don’t count as family—I went ‘round in circles about it with Dumbledore for ages—”

“You… you tried to come?” Harry said, gripping the mirror so hard he half-feared it would break. Something inside him felt like it was breaking, too. His resolve, maybe.

“Of course I bloody tried, I—what, you thought…” Sirius looked hurt for half a second.

Harry screwed his eyes shut, hard. “It’s… a reflex,” he said. The words came out a whisper but he was honestly surprised he’d managed to force them out at all. “To… Diggory said you wouldn’t be coming… and James made some crack…”

“I’ll kill him,” Sirius snarled.

“Don’t,” Harry said instantly. “It’d be too obvious—”

“Not this instant,” Sirius said. He looked feral. He looked exactly like a man who’d spent twelve years in Azkaban contemplating murdering the man who helped put him there.

“I’m… I’m…” Harry couldn’t make himself say it. _Sorry_. Two fucking syllables, and he couldn’t… He couldn’t not remember shuddering on the floor choking out apologies, he couldn’t not remember being that helpless weak child he’d been. Apologizing was vulnerability, helplessness, useless.

“I know,” Sirius said quietly. “I know.”

Harry slumped back on his pillows and then rolled so he was lying on his side in the fetal position. He’d slept curled up like this for warmth and for nursing injuries in the cupboard; it was comforting, somehow. “Fucking Dumbledore,” he said.

“No kidding,” Sirius muttered. “I’d scold you for language but in this case I think it’s justified.”

“Like you didn’t say that or worse at fourteen,” Harry said.

Sirius half-smiled. “I suppose I’d be a bit of a hypocrite…” 

Harry whiled away an hour talking to Sirius about everything and nothing, and ended the connection with Sirius’ assurance that he’d have Kreacher on standby to bring him the mirror as soon as Harry called him. As soon as Sirius was gone Harry reached for his journal.

It was missing.

He frowned. That was… unusual. He could’ve sworn he’d left it on the foot of his bed this morning.

Two tracking spells he found in his now-much-battered charms compendium failed to find it. Harry almost pegged the book across the room and gave up. This was a problem to solve _after_ he survived the Tournament.

He’d also be building a location spell into the runes on the journals as soon as possible.

He went up to lunch with his friends, flatly ignored Jules trying to catch his attention from across the Great Hall, and related in an icy, low voice what had happened that morning. Daphne’s eyes were colder than Harry had ever seen them and the way Theo and Pansy looked up at the staff table made Harry worry that he might have to help them hide a corpse soon. Daphne and Hermione kept a lid on whatever they’d found about the Skeeter-is-an-animagus theory and Harry let them, no matter how hard the others pushed.

Theo and Harry grabbed their brooms and went for a flight that afternoon. It was a relief to whip around the grounds and the Forest and lose track of time. He passed off his Portkeys while hovering in midair. Not a word passed between them the entire time, but there was nothing that needed to be said.

The two of them found the rest of their friends in the Knights Room. Daphne and Hermione and Pansy were scheming in a corner but they put their books away in Hermione’s book bag and hurried over. No one talked about the erumpent in the room but it was on everyone’s mind.

Harry was relieved when dinner rolled around.

The elves served more courses than usual, and sent some of Harry’s favorites to his section of the Slytherin table, but he couldn’t bring himself to eat much. A full stomach wasn’t a good idea when he’d be running and/or fighting off blast-ended skrewts in less than an hour. And he didn’t think he’d be able to keep it down anyway.

All his friends wished him luck—Hermione, Neville, and Justin made the pilgrimage to the Slytherin table to do so, ignoring the weird looks they got—and Harry joined Diggory, Delacour, Jules, and Viktor as the judges led them all out of the Great Hall.

Bagman fell back and checked on Jules. Harry and Viktor exchanged tense nods and nothing else.

The Quidditch pitch was nearly unrecognizable. Inside the thirty-foot-high walls that surrounded it, a hedge at least two-thirds of that height ran all the way around the edge, leaving only five feet of space at best. There was a single gap in front of them. The leaves rustling faintly in the breeze and distant chatter as the crowd filled the stands above them were the only sounds.

McGonagall arrived with Hagrid, Moody, and Flitwick in tow. “We will be patrolling the outside of the maze,” McGonagall said briskly. “If you get into difficulty, and wish to be rescued, send red sparks into the air, and one of us will come and get you, do you understand?”

Everyone nodded.

“Off you go, then!” Bagman said brightly.

Hagrid whispered a quick _good luck_ to Jules and glared at Harry before he lumbered off in McGonagall’s wake. He and the Gryffindor Head went one direction, Moody and Flitwick the other.

 _“Sonorous.”_ Harry screwed his fingers into his ears as Bagman started in on the announcements.

“Witches and wizards, the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament is about to begin! Let me remind you how the points currently stand! Tied in first place, with eighty-three points each—Mr. Hadrian Potter and Mr. Julian Potter of Hogwarts School!” Cheers and applause sent birds from the Forest fluttering into the darkening sky. Harry had no illusions about who most of Hogwarts was cheering for. “In second place, with eighty-two points—Mr. Viktor Krum, of Durmstrang Institute!” More applause. “In third—Miss Fleur Delacour, of Beauxbatons Academy! And finally in fourth—Mr. Cedric Diggory of Hogwarts School!”

“So… on my whistle, Hadrian and Julian!” Bagman said. “Three—two—one—”

The whistle blew.

Harry and Jules hurried forward into the maze.

The towering hedges cast black shadows across the path; it was even darker in here than it was outside. The sound of the crowd was silenced as soon as they stepped inside, which only made it more eerie. Harry couldn’t even see any of the stands over the edges of the hedge maze, only the clear sky and its glittering stars.

 _“Lumos,”_ he whispered, and heard Jules do the same.

They reached a fork after about fifty yards. Harry had the map tucked in his pocket memorized, at least for the first part; he took the right fork without hesitation. A glance over his shoulder showed Jules hesitating before going the other way.

As soon as he was out of sight, Harry stopped, and cast the same spell on himself that he’d used in the lake to let him see in the dark. The scene around him lightened immediately. It wasn’t the same quality as daylight; there was something eerie and overexposed about it, and shadows lingered in his peripheral vision, but it was far better than a _lumos_ since it wouldn’t announce his presence to anything with eyes. He doused his wandlight and set off at an easy jog.

The whistle sounded for the second time. Harry sped up; that meant Viktor was in the maze.

He came to a T intersection and turned right without hesitating. The path headed straight back towards the edge of the pitch but he knew that was just to trick you; it would loop around soon and go towards the middle. This was the most direct route to the center of the maze.

Which, of course, meant it was riddled with traps.

He used a simple nonverbal fire charm to chase back a patch of Devil’s Snare and left it intact behind him with a fire- and heatproofing charm on it in case anyone else came this way. A section of the path turned into marsh littered with hinkypunks that he avoided with ease, and then he fought a short but vicious battle against a simulacrum armed with a fairly nasty hexes before he took its head off with a cutting curse. The wooden dummy lost its animating magic and toppled back onto the ground. Harry cast a basic healing charm to stop his bleeding nose, used a _ferula_ to bind up the ankle he’d twisted dodging it, and hurried on.

The ground dropped out from underneath him. Harry’s first and most instinctive form of magic was wandless for all it was more taxing; he caught himself an inch over one-inch spikes in the ground that wouldn’t kill him but that would leave him in debilitating pain. Cursing the creators of this Tournament, he wandlessly willed himself up and out of the pit and onto safe ground.

Bagman’s whistle blew twice more.

Twice, Harry got turned around and had to pull out the map and squint at it at a crossroads. He moved faster now to stay ahead of his fellow champions. He doubted any of them would have thought to take pictures and make themselves a map—well, possibly Delacour—but it paid to stay ahead.

He found himself frowning as he moved. There were no more obstacles and he kept on jogging, resolutely holding himself to a steady pace so he didn’t hurtle straight into a trap without noticing.

Then he turned a corner and found himself facing his Dursley-self.

Harry checked his step so fast he almost fell over and stared at his alter ego, heart thundering for a different reason than the jog.

“I can’t do it,” the boggart whispered. “My magic… it’s gone…” It held up a trembling hand with two halves of an ash wand dangling from its fingers.

“I’m sorry!” boggart-Harry suddenly cried out, flinching back until it was curled on the ground. It jerked, and its shirt split as an invisible belt laid into its chest and left a horrid red welt again. “I’m sorry!”

But another blow came.

Harry gritted his teeth and brought his entire will to bear on his magic. _“Riddikulus!”_

Boggart-Harry turned into boggart-Jules, flinching under a third blow. Harry let out a great _HA!_ of laughter. It dissolved into smoke.

He clenched his fists. Never again.

Harry heard a clattering from up ahead and slowed, raising his wand.

A blast-ended skrewt lunged around the corner.

“Bloody hell,” he snarled, and cast a _reducto_ and then a _confringo_ in quick succession. The Reductor Curse was pressure-based and _confringo_ fire-based—technically it was a NEWT-level blasting spell—and the _confringo_ seemed to have more effect. He kept right on advancing with _confringos_ flying steadily, dodging strikes from the sting that curled over its back.

He had to end this fight. The second he turned to run, the thing would be on him before he got four steps.

Harry started slipping Stunners in between _confringos_ with more power than he dared use in a duel, for fear of hurling his opponent into a wall hard enough to seriously injure, or simply putting them into a magical coma too deep for a _renervate_ to fix. It was almost a relief to not have to watch his power output for once. But no matter how strong he made his spells they all ricocheted off the thing’s armor like nothing.

Ricochet.

He aimed his wand and opened his mouth and stopped himself from the _imperius_ that rose reflexively to his lips. The split second it took to switch from that spell to _confringo_ in his mind was all it took for the thing to blast forward and lash out with its stinger.

With a cry, Harry wrenched himself aside. The stinger lashed the ground next to him. He hit the dirt, rolled, and came up with his wand aimed. _“Ferula!”_

Bandages spooled out of his wand and lashed around the stinger. They weren’t as strong individually as ropes but Harry shoved magic through his wand and willed them into place and mass amounts of cotton strips bound the stinger down to the thing’s back.

The skrewt let out a twisted grating shriek of a noise and let off another fireburst. Harry threw himself to the side again and it slammed over him headfirst into the hedge.

That worked. He aimed his wand at its soft underbelly and let off the strongest Stunner he could manage.

With another horrid screech, it slowed down, but the legs were still moving, and it was clawing quite a hole in the hedge.

 _“Stupefy!”_ Harry shouted again.

It took a total of three Stunners to knock the thing out completely. Shuddering with fear, Harry rolled out from underneath it and climbed to his feet and cast a quick Banishing Charm to roll its body off to one side of the path. He eyed the gaping hole in the hedge and then pulled his map out of his pocket. Might be a shortcut…

At the same time that he realized it was not a shortcut, he heard Diggory shout, and then Viktor’s voice call out an incantation Harry had only used successfully twice, both of which were on rodents.

_“Crucio!”_

Diggory’s screams filled the maze.

Harry was moving before his brain caught up to his feet. Viktor was a friend. He had to sort out what was going on here.

He dove through the hole in the hedge, rolled, came up with his wand aimed—

 _“Stupefy!”_ he said, and Viktor dropped limply to the ground.

Diggory, shaking, pushed himself to his feet. “What… the hell…” he choked out.

Jules skidded around another corner.

“Gang’s all here,” Harry drawled, nudging Viktor’s body with a toe.

“I heard—the Cruciatus,” Jules said.

Harry kept his eyes and his wand covering both the other Hogwarts champions. They were both burdened with overblown senses of honor but you couldn’t be too careful.

“I thought he was a decent sort,” Diggory said, staring at Viktor’s body.

“So did I,” Harry murmured. This wasn’t Viktor, of that he was very sure. The Viktor he knew didn’t have a cruel bone in his body and it took some degree of cruelty and hatred to cast the Cruciatus. The Viktor he knew was honorable and principled and wouldn’t use a torture curse on another champion. A Stunner, possibly. The Body-Bind. Something to take them out of commission. Not this.

“Er…” Jules looked at them. “I’ll just… be going, then.”

He jogged away the direction he’d come.

“I should take off, too,” Diggory said. “Er… Thanks, Potter.”

Harry inclined his head, backing slowly towards the hole in the hedge. This path wasn’t shorter; he needed to duck back through to stay on track for the Cup. “No problem, Diggory.”

Diggory shot up red sparks over Viktor’s body and turned around.

And there it was. The opportunity Harry had been half-subconsciously watching for since he first tore through the hedge.

He lifted his wand.

Hesitated.

_“Stupefy.”_

Only twenty feet away, Diggory fell before he could even turn around.

Harry walked over and flipped him over. Stupefy knocked a person out, including all their muscles, but he imagined he could see the ghost of Diggory’s shock on his slack face.

“Never turn your back on an opponent, Diggory,” he said, and fired up more sparks, and took off back the way he’d come.

Two down. Only Delacour and Jules left out there. Harry was pretty sure Jules had gotten dueling training over the summer but he was still fairly confident he could take his brother. Delacour was more of a wild card; he had no experience with which to guess her dueling skills except that she’d gotten into the Tournament in the first place.

His map was telling him he was bang on course. Harry took half a minute to memorize the last few turns and jammed it into his pocket and transfigured the paper into a blank bit of parchment in case anyone yanked it out to look at later. He could vanish it as soon as he was out of here and had a moment to do so, but this would work as a stopgap.

He came to a fork. Harry took the right path without hesitating, turned a corner—

And there it was.

The Triwizard Cup gleamed on a plinth only a hundred meters away.

Just like that, Harry found that he wanted to win it as much as he’d ever wanted to win anything in his entire life. This was—this was more than proving himself to the Potters. This was proving to _everyone_ that he was better than his brother, better than these Macmillans and Kinneys and Malfoys who’d grown up in this world and took it for granted and _didn’t understand_ how _precious_ this thing was they had. Who took _magic_ for granted and never bothered to learn all they could about it. Never immersed themselves in it like Harry had. None of them deserved that Cup.

 _Jules_ didn’t deserve that Cup.

Harry took off running.

His bad ankle throbbed on every step but the bandages held and he ignored the pain. Pomfrey’d fix him right up as soon as he had that in his hand, as soon as he’d _won_.

And then.

Jules hurtled out of another path, bounced off the hedge, looked around, and bolted for the cup, too.

He was taller, thanks to Harry’s decade of malnutrition. He was taller and uninjured and _he was going to beat Harry there_.

 _“Accio cup!”_ Harry snarled out, but like the egg, they’d thought about that, planned for it. The Cup didn’t move.

Fine. He’d be the ignoble one, then.

He had his wand aimed and _stupefy_ on his lips when a horrible pincer-like clicking sound reached his ears.

Jules shot out of the path and into the clearing at the center of the maze just as an acromantula plowed into him from the left. He yelled, and kicked out, and then yelled again with pain.

Harry switched spells without thinking. _“Relashio!”_ he roared, and the acromantula lost its grip on Jules like it had been burned, dropping him onto the ground. Harry barely registered Jules’ leg crumpling underneath him. He’d read up on acromantulas after the disaster second year; it would take at _least_ two strong Stunners to take one out. Then again, Jules generally made up in power what he lacked in finesse.

“Stunners on three!” he yelled, and prayed Jules was listening. “One, two, _three! Stupefy!”_

Jules’ voice rang out almost in unison with Harry’s. Two jets of red light slammed into the acromantula’s hairy body at the same time and it toppled over and lay still.

 

_Jules_

Pain lanced up his leg. Jules breathed, in and out, in and out, and thought about willing away the Imperius when Moody cast it on him, and tried to think straight.

Harry stepped toward him, wand out and wary as he’d been when they were standing with Cedric over Krum’s body. Jules wondered why he was so bloody cautious. It wasn’t like Jules was horrible enough to hex him when Harry had just saved his life.

“You all right?” Harry said.

Jules bit back a _why d’you care?_ and examined his leg. It was shaking and didn’t want to support him, leaving him leaning on the hedge. Some sort of gluey secretion gleamed on his robes and near his freely-bleeding wound.

“That’s what I get for kicking a giant spider in the teeth,” he said, trying to laugh.

Harry flicked his wand and muttered an incantation. Jules flinched, and Harry’s expression twisted into something ugly and unhappy when he noticed, but all the spell did was spin bandages up his calf. Jules immediately felt a bit guilty for assuming Harry’d been ready to curse him while he was down like this.

“Why’d you help?” he said.

Harry gave him the patented are-you-actually-this-stupid look that Jules hated so much. “You’re my brother,” he said. “We may not like each other much but I’m not about to watch you get eaten just because Hagrid can’t judge what sorts of monsters are appropriate to throw at a pack of teenagers.”

“Thanks,” Jules said. It was a little hard to say the word, but—he owed Harry.

Again.

Almost as one, they turned and looked at the Cup. Twenty feet away.

Jules could practically see the decision form.

“No you _don’t_ ,” he shouted, shoving off the hedge and running. Near-blinding pain lanced up and down his leg but he was so pissed he ignored it. And desperate. Definitely that. He was—he was the Boy Who Lived, he was the Gryffindor Potter, he was _his father’s son_ , and he couldn’t lose to his scheming bookworm snakey brother of all people!

Harry started running at the exact same moment.

Jules staggered forward. Vindictively glad about the bandages he could see wrapping Harry’s ankle, slowing him down to Jules’ pace. He could see it in his head. Closing his hand over the Cup and appearing outside the maze. Everyone cheering. Finally proving he _deserved_ the title people had given him as a baby, that he wasn’t just an attention-seeking liar, that he _meant something_. Cho’s face, beaming at him from the stands, Cedric forgotten. His father’s pride. Skeeter never saying another horrible word about their family. She could call Harry a Dark wizard all she wanted. Jules didn’t even disagree with her. But he and his father were _better than that._

His and Harry’s hands closed around the Cup at the exact same time.

Magic hooked behind Jules’ navel and he was spinning through the air.

 

Jules slammed into the ground. His injured leg gave way beneath him and he crumpled to the ground. An _oof_ from his side told him Harry wasn’t in much better shape.

He opened his mouth to ask if this meant they were tied—and then he registered their surroundings.

“Is this part of the task?” he said uncertainly.

Harry swept his eyes around the graveyard. It was the first time Jules had ever been glad to see that icy, calculating expression. Most of the time it unnerved him, but right now it was on his side.

They’d obviously traveled many miles. Even the mountains surrounding Hogwarts were completely gone from sight. The graveyard around them was dark and entirely silent; shadowed trees surrounded it but it was the looming, abandoned tombstones that freaked Jules out the most.

He pulled his wand. Harry’s was already out.

“Anyone tell you the Cup was a Portkey?” Harry said.

“No.”

“Great.” Harry got to his feet. It looked painful. He reached down without looking; Jules took his hand and made himself let his twin help him get up. “Just bloody fantastic.”

“Someone’s watching us,” Jules said, very suddenly. He could feel it.

Harry glanced at him. “I feel it too…”

Without discussing it, they both shifted so they were standing at one another’s backs, wands out. Jules’ heart pounded. This must be why they’d been entered in the first place—but someone wanted him to win—how could they be sure he would?

“Someone’s coming,” Harry breathed.

Jules shoved speculations aside and focused on the here and now. He turned and looked in the same direction as Harry. A short, hooded figure was making its way through the gravestones.

Harry’s wand was steadily trained on it. Jules glanced at his brother’s face and flinched. It was set in hard lines, eyes blazing unnatural and greener than ever, and for just a second Jules thought Harry was about to cast the AK—

 _“Stupefy,”_ Harry said.

The red light slashed through the air. The figure batted it away as if it meant nothing, and kept on steadily advancing.

“Who’s there?” Harry demanded.

Jules’ scar exploded with pain.

He yelled and collapsed. He was dimly aware of Harry shouting his name, and then the flashes of spellwork that meant there was a duel happening, and then a yell and a thud and he forced his eyes open and Harry was lying on the ground next to him, bound in ropes from head to toe, and gagged. His eyes were angrier than Jules had ever seen them.

Jules groped for his wand. Someone kicked it out of his hand and dragged him forward. The pain was so blinding he couldn’t _think_ —

He was thrown up against a headstone, and ropes appeared out of nowhere, binding him to it. Jules struggled to process the name he’d seen carved into it.

Thomas Riddle.

It was impossible…

He thrashed and yelled, fighting the pain as much as the ropes tying their way around him. The person in the hood hit him on the cheek—hit him with a hand missing a finger—

“You!” Jules shouted. This was Wormtail. The man who’d betrayed his father and Uncle Remus and gotten Mum killed.

Wormtail ignored him, checking the ropes with hands that shook, and disappeared behind the headstone. Jules could barely turn his head. All he could see in the faint moonlight was Harry’s wriggling body twenty feet away, near the Cup and Jules’ wand. There was a bundle of robes—no, not just robes, a… a baby? Or something.

His scar seared with pain again. Jules suddenly knew for sure that he didn’t want that bundle opened.

A memory intruded, of a childlike, pale hand holding a wand in Jules’ peripheral vision.

He thought he was going to be sick. _It was impossible._

Wormtail’s heavy breathing got closer, as if he was dragging something heavy. Jules craned his head. Wormtail puffed back into view, levitating a massive cauldron before him. A large snake slithered out of the darkness; Jules would’ve yelled if he hadn’t been gagged, but it ignored him and just did a lap around the grave.

Wormtail positioned the cauldron at the foot of the grave. Water sloshed inside it. Jules thought a full-grown man could easily sit inside. He’d never seen a cauldron this large before. Wormtail crouched and did something at the base; blue flames crackled to life, and the snake disappeared into the darkness.

The liquid in the cauldron heated very fast, and set off sparks. Not plain water, then. Jules didn’t know nearly enough about potions to guess what was _really_ in there. Harry might, but Harry was still uselessly writhing on the ground.

_“Hurry!”_

Jules shuddered. He knew that high, cold voice.

Voldemort. Somehow, the thing in the bundle was Voldemort. He’d never been surer of anything in his life.

The whole surface of the liquid was alight with sparks, as if diamond-encrusted.

“It is ready, Master,” Wormtail said.

“ _Now…”_

Wormtail unwrapped the bundle on the ground, and Jules let out a yell.

It was as if Wormtail had flipped over a rock in a deep, deep cave and revealed something that was never supposed to see the light. It looked like a human child, and also less like a child than anything Jules had ever seen. Crouched, hairless, scaly-looking, reddish-black in color, and its face might have been _somewhat_ normal except for its horrific red eyes.

The thing seemed almost helpless; it raised its feeble arms, and Wormtail lifted it as one might a toddler. Wormtail’s hood fell back and Jules could see the look of discomfort on his face as he carried the thing that was Voldemort over to the cauldron and slid it into the liquid.

 _Please, let it drown_ , Jules thought. His scar burned almost more than he could bear.

Wormtail closed his eyes and raised a pale yew wand. His hand shook but his voice was steady as he incanted, _“Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!”_

The surface of the grave at Jules’ feet cracked. Horrified, he yanked his feet off the ground and hung entirely by the ropes as a stream of fine grayish dust streamed up out of the dirt and into the cauldron. The diamond surface hissed and spat sparks everywhere and turned a poisonous shade of blue.

Whimpering, Wormtail pulled a silver dagger out of his robes. His eyes screwed so tightly shut that Jules thought wildly they might get stuck that way. _“Flesh of the servant… willingly… given… you will—revive your master,”_ he said, and the wand flashed, and then he raised the dagger and brought it down in a streak of light on his own wrist.

Jules gagged.

Wormtail’s hand fell away into the cauldron. The potion turned a burning, violent red, and blood sprayed; Jules couldn’t look away from the cauldron because then he’d see the horrible wound and he didn’t want to see it. Hearing Wormtail’s anguished panting was bad enough.

He forced his eyes up when the breathing came closer. Wormtail had cast some spell to stop the bleeding, but the stump of the arm was still a horrid thing to look at.

Too late, Jules realized the dagger was coming for him. He thrashed and yelled but he could do nothing to stop the dagger from slicing a thin cut down his forearm. Wormtail collected it in a glass vial, holding the yew wand in his teeth so he could use his remaining hand, and returned to the cauldron.

He poured the blood in, took the wand back in his hand, and spoke again. _“Blood of the enemy… forcibly taken… you will resurrect your foe!”_

The liquid turned a blinding, violently sparking white.

Wormtail collapsed, sobbing and clutching his arm.

Quite suddenly, a surge of sparks flared from the cauldron, and then the light died entirely, replaced by great clouds of white steam.

Squinting, Jules could make out a tall, thing figure rising from the cauldron—

His scar flared with pain, and then the world went dark.


	20. Grave Magic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several people in the comments have been wondering where I disappeared to. Luckily, I am not dead or dealing with a tragedy of any kind, just overwhelmed with family business of late! If I ever said I expected summer to be less busy than my school year, I was dead wrong. It's been crazy. However! Book 6 is underway and we're finally reaching the endgame of this one, not to mention some implied answers about the WBWL thing! This chapter's a bit short but action-heavy and the next one should be up on Wednesday like usual. Thanks to everyone for your patience!! 
> 
> Unfortunately, I don't have time to answer all the comments on the hybrid ch18/19 post at the moment, but I'll answer that I saw a general trend of people asking/discussing Hagrid's behavior. His dislike of Harry based on Harry's resemblance to Tom Riddle is irrational and immature, yes. However, as someone else pointed out, Tom Riddle wrecked Hagrid's life, and Hagrid would've had plenty of time, staying on to learn how to be a gamekeeper (canon implies he went straight to that job after he was expelled), to watch Tom get older. To hear the rumors of Tom's behavior, while Hagrid knew exactly what sort of person he was--or at least had a much better idea than most. On top of that, frankly, Hagrid seems to have been extremely ostracized from wizarding society for most of his life. He was kicked out of school at thirteen, never received any more education, and spends time with either students, Dumbledore, or occasionally other teachers. His behavior and the ways he interacts with Harry and Co in canon seem much more like an impulsive young man with a heart of gold rather than a fully developed mature adult. See his emotional and childish tantrum in 5th year, when Harry and the others stopped taking Care and Hagrid sulked in his hut and stopped talking to them. Much like Sirius, although less seriously (ha), he never had the opportunity to really grow up. All that is to say, yeah, he is kind of emotional and immature about some things, especially a quiet young dark-haired Parselmouth Slytherin, clever, well-dressed, difficult to read, with an apparent chip on his shoulder. Not to mention Dumbledore doesn't trust Harry, and even in canon he sort of leads Hagrid around by the nose.

Harry had a horrible sense of déjà vu. 

Lying on the ground, trussed up like a prize pig waiting for slaughter, wandless magic attacking ropes that were infuriatingly resistant to magical interference, while _Jules_ faced down the monster.

 _Untie, dammit_ , he thought furiously, magic flowing through his hands and skin. His wand sat on the ground two feet away, very near Jules’. He could easily summon it but with the way his hands were pinned to his back he probably couldn’t hold it anyway, and even if he could, the risk of cutting into himself with a _diffindo_ instead of the ropes was too high. He’d be able to do jack shit if he gashed his leg open with a badly aimed spell.

But when Wormtail levitated the cauldron into place, Harry couldn’t help but stop and pay attention. He sniffed the fumes that reached him and watched how the colors of the sparks changed and realized with some horror that this potion had something to do with Melogo’s Curse—the one that kept you alive through any kind of physical damage, kept you sane and conscious through any kind of pain, the one that took five years to brew but spelled doom for anyone being tortured. It wasn’t Melogo’s, not really, that potion let off smoke instead of sparks, but he’d read about the uses of unicorn blood and lethifold essence, he knew what blood-based potions smelled like, and this was…

It would bring a body back to life.

Bone of the father—compatibility. Magic needed something to work with to build a new body, and you couldn’t just use any old skeleton without risking the starting tissue being rejected by the host. And bone was best, because its biological function was structure and support, a basis for other things to build on. Its magical properties would mirror that.   

Flesh of the servant—sacrifice. Harry was pretty sure that bit would be even more powerful if Wormtail slit his own throat and bled out into the cauldron, but then there’d be no one left to finish the ritual. Voldemort definitely had a staffing problem. Any kind of willing sacrifice was powerful,

Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, would strengthen it because there was power in taking something from a defeated foe. But _Jules’_ blood…

Harry had a bad feeling that was going to tie Voldemort to Jules in a way he didn’t fully understand. If nothing else, he really doubted that whatever ritual Lily Potter did that kept Quirrell from touching Jules first year would hold anymore.

Then steam exploded from the cauldron and a tall figure unfurled above its rim.

Jules passed out.

Harry’s scar was prickling unhappily but it didn’t really hurt. He gritted his teeth just as the figure waved a hand and black robes appeared on its body—gritted his teeth and _ordered_ the ropes on his limbs to fall away.

He lay there. His every instinct was screaming to flee, and his wand and the Cup were right there, every Portkey was two-way—but Jules.

_I can’t leave Jules._

So Harry clung harder to his Occlumency than he ever had before to keep the terror from overwhelming his mind and he lay perfectly still like the ropes still had him immobilized.

The man stepped out of the cauldron wearing simple black robes of the finest fabric and cut. Taller than average. Dark-haired, red-eyed, pale and cold. He would’ve been the sort of handsome you saw on Greek statues if not for something resolutely icy and controlled that sculptors never tried to emulate. Art was about emotion, and this man was the opposite.

Voldemort ignored Harry and Jules completely. He seemed fascinated with his own body—fair, Harry supposed, seeing as he hadn’t had a better one than that disgusting childlike thing or a possessed idiot like Quirrell in thirteen years. Long-fingered hands felt their way up his own arms, across his chest and face and hair.

Harry tried to control his heart rate and be as inconspicuous as possible. Jules was the threat here; Jules was the marked one, the Boy Who Lived. Voldemort would pay more attention to him than to Harry, and the second he had a chance, Harry was grabbing his brother and Portkeying the _hell_ out of here.

“Pettigrew,” Voldemort said softly.

“Y-yes, Mas… Master?” Still shaking, the traitor hauled himself to his knees, clutching the bloody stump of his right arm.

“My wand.”

“Y-yes, Master.” Wormtail turned the pale wand in one hand and offered it, handle first, to Voldemort.

“As I promised,” Voldemort said lazily, aiming the wand. “I reward those who are loyal, and loyal you have most certainly been…”

He spun and twirled his wand. A streak of molten silver hung in the air where the wand passed. It writhed, shapeless, for a moment, until it bubbled up and formed into a gleaming silver replica of a human hand. The false hand shot through the air and affixed itself to the end of Wormtail’s stump.

Wormtail abruptly stopped sobbing. He stared at the stump of his arm with ragged, unsteady breaths rasping in and out of his lungs. Harry watched with irresistible fascination. He wanted to know what that spell was. He wanted to know how to do that.

The silver hand trembled as Wormtail flexed each of his new fingers, twisted his arm this way and that, stared at it with more fascination than even Harry. “Th-thank you, Master,” he whispered, and picked up a twig, and crushed it into powder.

“Stand up, Pettigrew,” Voldemort ordered. Wormtail hastened to obey. “I will not have my followers pitifully huddled on the ground when I defeat my foe… Give me your arm.”

Wormtail extended his new hand.

“The _other_ one,” Voldemort said.

Flinching, Wormtail switched arms. Harry looked at his face for the first time and registered that he looked a lot less ratlike with clean hair and having lost some of the weight that came from eating Ronald Weasley’s rat treats all the time.

Voldemort pushed up the sleeve of his robes. Harry caught just a glimpse of the Dark Mark outlined in red before Voldemort pressed his finger to the tattoo.

Wormtail yelped in pain before getting himself under control. The Mark turned jet black. Jules came awake with a jerk and looked around, obviously panicked.

“How many will be brave enough to return when they feel it?” Voldemort hissed, his red eyes fixed on the stars. “How many will be foolish enough to stay away?”

Harry met Jules’ eyes and tried to telegraph _stay there, stay quiet_ as he reached out with wandless magic and grimly began trying to undo Jules’ ropes despite the distance limiting his abilities. Wandless magic was a lot easier to work with physical contact, especially when he was dealing with enchanted ropes.

“You stand, Potters, upon the remains of my late father,” Voldemort said very suddenly. He looked Harry over with disdain that made Harry’s blood run cold with fury before focusing on Jules. Even fucking _Voldemort_ passed him over as just his brother’s shadow. The Slytherins might call Jules the Other Potter, but to everyone else, the nickname fit Harry and not his brother.

“A Muggle and a fool,” Voldemort mused. “Yet his death served a purpose. I killed him, and it has served a twofold purpose to keep me alive… You see that house upon the hillside? My father lived there. My mother, a witch who lived in this village, fell in love with him. But he abandoned her when she told him what she was… He didn’t like magic, my father…

“He left her and returned to his Muggle parents before I was even born, Potter, and she died giving birth to me, leaving me to be raised in a Muggle orphanage… but I vowed to find him… I revenged myself upon the fool who gave me his name.”

Harry thought he might be sick. He didn’t _want_ to—understand. He didn’t want his knee-jerk hatred tempered by sympathy. Not true empathy; Harry was pretty sure feeling _with_ other people was just not something wired into his brain, but sympathy—feeling _for_ them—that he could handle. That he was dealing with right now.

He understood all too well what it was to have family who hated you simply for what you were.

“Listen to me,” Voldemort said with a quiet laugh. “Reliving family history. Such ridiculous sentimentality. But Thomas Riddle Senior was not my family for all he impregnated my mother with me… My _true_ family returns…”

For the air had suddenly filled with the sound of swishing cloaks. Between graves, in every shadowy space, people were Apparating. All wore long black cloaks with the hoods up and bone-white masks over their faces. And one by one… slowly, cautiously, as though they could hardly believe their eyes… they dropped to one knee in a circle. Dropped to one knee and bowed their heads, drew their wands and laid them on the ground before them.

“Master,” they whispered, a word that ran around the loose circle in a sibilant homage. Almost a prayer. “Master.”

Voldemort’s smile was slow and cruel and familiar—an older, more practiced version of the one worn by his sixteen-year-old self in the Chamber. He let them wait, let the silence stretch and grow and settle heavy in the open spaces of the graveyard.

“Rise,” he said.

The single word was soft and quiet but unmistakably a command. In unison, the Death Eaters got to their feet.

Harry flicked his eyes around. Counting. Despite gaps in the circle, he was horrifically outnumbered. He redoubled his efforts to get Jules’ ropes off.

“Welcome,” Voldemort said quietly. “Thirteen years since last we met… and you answer my call as though it were yesterday… We are still united under the Dark Mark, then!”

He prowled around the circle, looking into each mask in turn. Harry could not tell if it was fear or excitement or both that left the air so charged.

“Yet despite your loyalty _now_ … I see you before me, whole and healthy, with your powers intact… and yet I recall none of you finding me in my exile. None of you save Peter Pettigrew, who you mocked and ridiculed for _weakness_ , managed to find me and aid my return to power… So I must ask myself.” He stopped in the center of the circle and swept eyes like an arctic gale around his followers. Harry controlled his shiver. “Did you slip back among our enemies, and plead innocence, and ignorance, and bewitchment, to save your own skins, or to gather power and influence for the day of my return? Did you wait and bide your time or did you take the chance to sell my secrets to that champion of weakness and _progression_ , Albus Dumbledore?”

“Never,” someone said hoarsely. Harry recognized that voice; he knew Jules did as well by the way his brother suddenly stiffened.

Lucius Malfoy.

 “Never,” the Death Eater said again. “My Lord… we could not find you, we presumed your journey back to life was one beyond the reach of our limited powers, so we waited… We thought you’d prefer to return to find us well-placed in our society, with reputations and vaults and properties and influence to our names…”

Harry’s grudging admiration for Lucius Malfoy’s manipulative skills grew. The man really was slick as an oil spill. Not to mention twice as deadly.

“A most excellent answer,” Voldemort said, coming to a half in front of Lord Malfoy. “And should it be true, I would reinstate you to my Inner Circle… but we’ll have to verify, won’t we?”

Malfoy’s hands, Harry could see, were trembling faintly, but he did not flinch as Voldemort raised the yew wand and said, _“Legilimens.”_

It took only thirty seconds, but those thirty seconds were the longest of Harry’s life.

Voldemort stepped back and lowered the wand.

Malfoy slumped. His entire body was trembling now but he managed to stay on his feet.

“I see…” Voldemort tilted his head once. It was a slight motion, not even enough to be called a nod, but it was still more respect than Harry had ever expected him to show to anyone else. “For once in your life, you’ve been honest… A wise choice. I welcome you back to my Inner Circle.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” Malfoy whispered.

Voldemort moved on around the circle. Harry didn’t recognize most of the voices but he definitely heard Lord Nott and Lady Parkinson among their ranks. His fists clenched at his sides. This was going to be… difficult.

He didn’t want to cost any of his friends their parent. But he’d already decided that he would do what it took to get him and Jules out of here.

Or, if it came to that, just himself.

Harry shoved that ugly bit of self-awareness into a box to think about later.

The second-to-last Death Eater flinched violently when Voldemort raised his wand.

The whisper of “ _Legilimens”_ brushed across the circle but it was that flinch that drew everyone’s attention. The other Death Eaters leaned in like a pack of wolves scenting violence on the horizon.

Instead of standing still and silent, this Death Eater twitched and jerked and whimpered, and when Voldemort stepped back, he collapsed in a shaking heap on the ground.

“You rather disgust me, Macnair,” Voldemort said idly. “I was never particularly happy to have you in my Inner Circle. Pure sadism can be useful when directed… and now I see that you believed me gone. That you forsook our principles and pursued only your own gain. That you _were_ moronic enough to set tents on fire and toss Muggles into the air during the Cup  That you returned tonight only because you were not such a fool as Igor. Pettigrew tells me you satisfy your bloodlust now by killing dangerous beasts for the Ministry.” His lips tightened. “Who here would like to take up such a mantle in _my_ service?”

Harry understood the question in the exact second that three Death Eaters stepped forward, heads bowed. One was the one he’d pegged as Lord Nott. The other two were unnamed.

“I would be most honored to handle the traitorous filth, my Lord,” Nott said. His voice was neither cold nor hot with anger—just steady, implacable, terrifying. The more times Harry interacted with him, the more he realized exactly where Theo’s viciousness came from.

“As would we,” the second Death Eater said—it was a woman’s voice—and the third murmured agreement.

Voldemort’s eyes swept lazily over them. “Why not take turns… see how long he lasts.”

At least two people in the circle laughed at that. Harry frowned—what did he mean—

 _“Crucio,”_ Nott said, almost boredly, and Macnair’s screams abruptly filled the clearing.

He fell into sobs when Nott’s curse ran its course, but the reprieve was only a second or two long before the woman stepped forward. _“Crucio.”_

When her spell ended, the third volunteer raised their own wand.

It took nine turns under the Cruciatus before Macnair’s desperate screams choked off and he collapsed.

Nott prodded the corpse with a toe. “Dead, my Lord.”

“Mmm.” Voldemort examined the body with no visible emotion. “That’s that dealt with…” He looked around again. “I must commend you, then, for remaining free. I am indeed pleased to return and find your resources at my disposal—in fact, several of you are even better-placed now than you were when I fell. Pity we are missing several of our number… The Lestranges. Carter Avery. Cecil Hoskyns and Katya Sparrow. Laura Parsons. Septimus Travers. Leon Mulciber. Augustus Rookwood…” His voice took on a dark edge. “Antonin Dolohov.”

Harry had a strong feeling that Dolohov wasn’t going to enjoy his return to the Death Eaters if and when they were snatched from Azkaban.

“And here we have three missing,” Voldemort breathed. “Not because of prison, but—in one case, too cowardly to return.” He smiled. “Dear Igor will pay. In one case, I believe he has left me forever, though he shall have a chance to prove otherwise. And one, who remains my faithful servant, and who has already reclaimed his place in my Inner Circle.”

The circle of Death Eaters stirred, eyes darting sideways at one another through their masks. Wondering who was who. Harry knew Snape was either the traitor or the faithful. He believed it was the former—which left the faithful still unknown.

It’d be great if he could figure out who exactly had gotten him and Jules into this situation before they Portkeyed back to Hogwarts. That way Harry would know who to kill.

“He is at Hogwarts,” Voldemort continued, confirming Harry’s suspicions, “and it is through his efforts that our young friends arrived here tonight.”

Another stir in the circle. Harry lay very still, in the manner of a prey animal trying to avoid a predator’s notice.

“Yes,” Voldemort said. His eyes flashed in Jules’ direction. The ropes were—not quite giving way, but slowly, grudgingly beginning to release their grip. “The Potter twins have kindly joined us for my rebirthing party. One might go so far as to call them the guests of honor.”

“My Lord,” Lady Parkinson said. “We would be delighted to learn how this miracle came to be.”

Voldemort twirled his yew wand around his fingers. “You know, of course, that they have called this boy my downfall?” he said conversationally. “The night I lost my powers and my body was the night I attempted to kill him. His mother… As you all know, I once hoped to turn Lily and James Potter to our side. Mostly because Lily Evans was one of the brightest students Hogwarts has seen since I passed through its halls, though James Potter was far from useless.” Pettigrew twitched. “Alas, she denied me—but it was for her skill that I wanted her, and it was her skill that created a ritual which invoked powerful protections on her children using the magic of her death.”

“Such rituals are illegal,” someone said. A female voice—the same one who’d helped torture Macnair to death. “Very illegal—yet a Muggle-born knew of them?”

Voldemort laughed. “You see why I wished to turn her. Lily Evans was no ordinary Muggle-born.”

 “Quirrell,” a man’s voice said.

“Indeed.” Voldemort shrugged. “I possessed Quirrell and returned to Hogwarts in pursuit of the Philosopher’s Stone. Albus Dumbledore arranged for Jules Potter to face me, and it was then I discovered that Lily Evans’ ritual not only cast my own Killing Curse back on me, but it rendered me unable to touch Mr. Potter. Quirrell died in the attempt.

“I miscalculated, and I admit it. I was less than the meanest ghost, less than spirit, but I was alive. It appears my experiments to modify ancient rituals of immortality have been successful.” He breathed deeply, as if enjoying the sensation of owning a set of lungs again. “I had to force myself, sleeplessly, endlessly, second by second, to exist. And I waited in a place where I have gone before—I waited for any of my Death Eaters to be clever enough to find me.

“My one power was of possession. I found only animals, for the Aurors were abroad and hunting for me, and I dared not go where humans were in number. And then, four years ago, a young, gullible wizard crossed my path. A teacher at Dumbledore’s school. Easily convinced to my cause, broken to my will—he brought me back to this country, and I took possession of him to supervise as he carried out my orders. But he failed, and I waited for another opportunity.

“Imagine my surprise when, of all people, Peter Pettigrew found me. Helped by the rats he met along the way. They told him there was a place deep in an Albanian forest that they avoided, where small animals had met their deaths by a dark shadow that possessed them. And on the way, Pettigrew stopped to steal food from a Muggle inn—and by unfortunate coincidence, a Ministry witch, Bertha Jorkins, was there the same night.” He waved a hand at Pettigrew. “Pettigrew convinced her to go for a walk, and overpowered her, and brought her to me. He brought me a woman who proved to be a gift beyond my wildest dreams.

“She knew the Triwizard Tournament would be played at Hogwarts this year. She knew of a faithful Death Eater who would be only too willing to help me, if I could only reach him.

“But she had a Memory Charm blocking knowledge of this Death Eater, and in retrieving the information, I broke her mind. I disposed of her.

“Pettigrew followed my instructions and returned me to a rudimentary, weak body of my own, a body I could inhabit while awaiting the essential ingredients for true rebirth. A spell or two of my own invention, a little help from dear Nagini, a potion concocted from unicorn blood… I was soon returned to almost human form and strong enough to travel.

“Surely Dumbledore would have destroyed the Stone, so I settled on other methods. My soul is tethered to its existence on this plane but a new body—that would be most difficult to create. Bone of my father, so it would be similar enough to my true body for my magic to use it as a basis.” Even in the middle of all this, Harry was proud of himself for figuring out what was going on. “Flesh of a servant… a powerful sacrifice. And, finally, blood of an enemy.” He focused in on Jules again. “I could simply have used any old wizard, of course, but in order to bypass the protections laid on Jules Potter and bound to him and his blood-kin when I tried to kill him and activated Lily Potter’s ritual, it was his blood I needed. And if I could not get to Jules Potter himself…”

His eyes turned and fastened on Harry, along with the rest of the circle. Harry stopped breathing, stopped his wandless magic, stopped doing everything but exist as Voldemort went on. And then Voldemort _smiled_. Harry shuddered. “Then the blood of Lily Evans runs in Harry Potter’s veins, too—and using his blood would at least provide _limited_ protection from the defenses layered on his twin. And it was not difficult to see that while Dumbledore watches Julian’s every step, the elder Potter twin is largely considered the spare.”

Harry knew he was glaring hatefully at Voldemort. Harry knew that was a terrible idea and an action that had gotten a lot of people killed. Harry didn’t care. He wasn’t a _spare_.

Voldemort turned away. “So I positioned my loyal Death Eater at Hogwarts, to ensure the Potter twins’ names were entered in the Goblet of Fire. I had my Death Eater turn the Cup into a Portkey and subtly aid Jules Potter throughout the Tournament so that he would touch the Cup first, so that he would be brought here, beyond Dumbledore’s reach. And if not him, then his brother. Imagine my surprise when not one but _both_ of the Potter twins appeared before me.” He raised an eyebrow at Harry. “Would you care to explain, Hadrian? Seeing as your brother is gagged.”

“If he wasn’t, he’d probably have spat at you by now,” Harry said flatly. “We raced for the Cup. Grabbed it at the same time.” _Kind of wish I’d just let him have it._

Voldemort sneered. “No love to be lost between you two, is there?”

Harry and Jules locked eyes. _Something_ , Harry thought. _Maybe not love, but something to be lost._

“No matter.”

Harry sensed that this was the moment of everything changing. He hurled raw magic at the ropes. Willed them undone. Everyone said Wormtail was clever but not powerful, and he’d cast the spell, so Harry _should be able to beat this._

Voldemort examined his wand, and then Jules. “A foolish man would let him loose,” he said. “Give him his wand and let him fight me. But this boy has proven unaccountably lucky in the past… so I will not be that foolish man.”

Harry broke the ropes.

Jules slumped to the ground. Voldemort’s Killing Curse hit the tombstone and shattered it into pieces.

 _“Catch!”_ Harry yelled, hurling Jules’ wand.

Seeker reflexes saved his brother’s life. Jules snatched the wand out of the air and dove behind another tombstone just as a curse hit it.

Harry rolled away from four separate spells and started returning fire. Kid gloves gone. He hurled the nastiest Dark spells he’d ever learned in dueling club or from Hestia’s lot: the Blinding Curse from Theo, the Entrails-Expelling Curse, _incremo_ to burn someone up from inside, _glacipulmo_ to freeze the lungs. People blocked and dodged and shouted. His body sang with adrenaline and he wandlessly yanked tombstones through the air one by one to block various spells even as he fired off his own curses—but he couldn’t keep this up forever; he couldn’t last more than a few—

Seconds—

 _“Incremo!”_ he snarled, and a shriek of pain told him the spell had landed.

Harry had only a second to enjoy his success before a spell slammed into his shoulder blades and his wand went flying out of his hands.

For one moment, as clear and sharp as diamond, Harry was certain he was about to die.

Two shouts rang out simultaneously. _“Expelliarmus!”_ from Jules and _“Avada Kedavra!”_ from Voldemort.

 _Why the fuck did you use the Disarming Charm against Voldemort?!_ Harry thought wildly—

But Jules did not die.

The jet of green light from Voldemort’s wand hit the streak of red from Jules’—like Christmas colors—and with a flash, the beam of light turned gold.

Harry’s jaw dropped as his brother and Voldemort lifted into the air, wands connected by the golden thread, and came to rest on a patch of ground that was free and clear of graves. A Death Eater landed an _apicorpus_ on Harry, binding his limbs to his body in a stronger and harder-to-undo version of the Limb-Locker, and dragged him over; the others followed, shouting, asking for instructions, with the snake following at their heels—

The golden light splintered. A thousand beams of light arced high over Jules and Voldemort and crisscrossed until they were enclosed in a golden dome-shaped web.

“Do nothing!” Voldemort yelled. “Do not interfere with this magic!”

Harry was roughly tossed to the ground. He glared hatefully at the Death Eater who had him and was shocked to be looking up into an exact copy of Theo’s hazel eyes.

“Wait,” Lord Nott breathed. “He will not kill you if you do not force him. For my son’s sake, _wait.”_

Harry narrowed his eyes and said nothing.

Nott had the courtesy to roll him so he could watch the fight.

An unearthly and beautiful song filled the air. Coming from the light around the combatants. Harry recognized it as phoenix song and immediately went to work shoring up his mental shields. It might be benign but he would never let his mind or soul be affected by any magical force like this if he could help it. The sense of being surrounded by allies and supporters, of _love_ , skated right over his shields and off them.

He registered the beads of light on the connection between the two wands. Several of them. Sliding toward Jules’ wand.

Jules focused.

The beads halted their advance.

Harry was barely breathing. The Death Eaters paced slowly and intently around the circle like jackals waiting for their leader to move away from a kill. He set to work undoing the _apicorpus_ with runes he drew in his mind and envisioned sinking into his skin. It was the weakest form of rune magic, but it would have to work. And combined with wandless magic—the unlocking, undoing, escaping trick he’d relied on to sneak out of the cupboard and steal food for so long—he could do this.

The beads started moving again, toward Jules.

Harry worked harder, sweat beading on his forehead. The Death Eaters ignored him, seemingly content that undoing the ropes had been a burst of accidental magic, or perhaps that the more powerful _apicorpus_ would keep him down. Or maybe they just thought the original escape was Jules’ doing. Harry didn’t especially care.

One of the golden beads touched Jules’ wand.

At once, the wand began to emit echoing screams of pain. Jules’ eyes widened in shock as a dense could of smoke emerged from his wand.

 _Priori Incantatem_ , Harry realized. Like what Diggory used at the Cup.

Jules shook his head. More spells fought their way out of his wand. Jinxes from his recent duel with Voldemort. Spells from the maze.

Harry felt the _apicorpus_ give way just as Jules looked desperately in his direction.

 _Break it_ , Harry mouthed, summoning his wand to his hands without getting up. If he was to have even a chance of getting them both out of here Jules needed to be outside that cage first. Something told Harry that it would block pretty much any spell he threw at it.

Jules sucked in a deep breath and wrenched his wand up into the air.

Curses flew. Magical energy exploded outwards. Death Eaters fell to the ground and so did both Voldemort and Jules, their wands skittering out of their hands.

 _“Accio Jules!”_ Harry shouted, pointing his wand. Jules’ limp, unconscious body shot through the air. Harry didn’t have time to check him for a pulse or anything before a spell hit his back and his wand flew out of his hand.

“Good luck getting this back,” the Death Eater who’d taken it jeered, jamming it into his robes. “Runewarded robes, Potter. Don’t even try.”

Voldemort struggled to his feet. “The elder Potter… proves unexpectedly powerful,” he rasped. “I wonder how much of your brother’s success tonight belongs to you?”

“He wouldn’t have survived that first AK if not for me cutting his ropes,” Harry said coldly. He kept his eyes on Voldemort’s nose and not those red eyes. Around Dumbledore he at least had the reassurance that the man wouldn’t use _too_ active Legilimency for fear of the law. Voldemort wouldn’t give a shit.

“How interesting,” Voldemort breathed. “The Slytherin Potter, dismissed as the spare… but your brother would not be alive if not for you.”

“And Crabbe _would_ be!” someone snarled. A deep voice. Uncultured.

Harry looked around. One of his spells _had_ hit home. That was a Death Eater corpse lying on the ground—Vincent Crabbe’s father, if the unknown speaker could be believed.

Someone dead. At his wand. Not in a nice way, either. He hadn’t been using lily-livered Light spells.

Something in Harry’s stomach turned but he shoved that knowledge aside. He could deal with it later.

“Which spell?” Voldemort said idly.

“Incremo.” The other man—Goyle, Harry decided—glared at him.

“Even _more_ interesting,” Voldemort said with a cold smile. “Imagine how disappointed Dumbledore would be to hear his little protégé knew such illegal Dark magic.”

“You must have missed the memo,” Harry said. “I’m not his protégé. That’s my idiot brother here. Dumbledore’s about as fond of me as I am of him, which is to say I’d happily watch the old man snog a dementor.” He tensed. His move had to be soon. Talk—talk until they were disarmed slightly; talk long enough that they believed him as helpless and wandless and magicless as he appeared—and then strike. “And you lot of all people should know how he feels about Slytherins.”

A ripple of something went around the loose circle. “I suppose we do,” Voldemort said. “I hear you’re friends with… children whose families follow me.”

Harry bowed in Nott’s direction, and then Parkinson’s. He’d been keeping track of each of them as best he could in the chaos. “Lord Nott. Lady Parkinson. I do wish we’d met again under… less antagonistic circumstances.”

“You see why dear Pansy likes him,” Lady Parkinson said.

“I do,” Voldemort mused. “And my Death Eater in Hogwarts has been intrigued by him too… him and his snake familiar,” he said.

That was an important piece. That was something Harry needed to file under _consider as soon as possible._ He put it in a mental compartment right along with the fact that he’d just killed someone so he could keep his mind clear. “Pity she can’t be here tonight,” Harry said with his own nasty smile. “Her venom’s painful.”

“So is dear Nagini’s,” Voldemort said, gesturing lazily towards his own snake. Harry had been keeping a wary eye on her, too. She was far enough away that she wouldn’t beat the Cup to him when he summoned it, and he could always chuck a wandless Banishing Charm at her if he had to.

“That’s a constrictor,” Harry said.

“Magical crossbreed,” Voldemort corrected him.

“Understandable. Where’d you find her?”

Voldemort raised one eyebrow. “Same place you found your familiar, I suspect. _Though how you claimed the Heir of Slytherin’s legacy I’ve no idea.”_

“It’s rude to speak a language others don’t in front of them,” Harry said. “Your followers might think you’re keeping secrets. As it happens, I traded your teenage self that information, right before Jules killed him.”

“You are cunning,” Voldemort said. “And ambitious, and a Parselmouth. I thought your Sorting was a fluke.”

“Were you not paying attention in Quirrell’s classes?” Harry muttered. “You saw me that whole year…”

“I was half-conscious most of the time,” Voldemort said dismissively. “The drivel coming out of his mouth irritated me and remaining in full control would have degraded his body far too rapidly.” He studied Harry for a moment. “I think I’ll keep you as a hostage, Mr. Potter. Lord Black has valuable resources at his disposal... Never fear,” he added with a smirk. “You will remain unharmed. I value free will in my people and I would rather not antagonize your godfather.”

“If it’s all the same, I’d rather not,” Harry said. “Spent my childhood a prisoner, I’m not keen to repeat the experience.”

“Unfortunately, it is not all the same,” Voldemort said. “And your brother has to die.”

Harry tightened his grip on Jules. “This instant?”

“I _would_ rather he be awake,” Voldemort mused, and in the second his attention shifted to one of the Death Eaters, Harry made his move.

He lashed out with magic. A ring of fire roared into existence surrounding him and Jules. Tall, blindingly bright, hotter than hell. The biggest fire he’d ever summoned. Harry fell to the ground and dragged Jules with him as spells scythed the air above their heads and summoned the cup and Jules’ wand.

The wand found him first. Harry sensed it coming—jammed it into Jules’ pocket—reached out a hand and snagged the Cup—

The Portkey snatched them away.


	21. At Last, Some Honesty

Harry slammed flat into the ground. His head swam, careful Occlumency shields and compartments shattered; things slammed into him in waves. Shock. Exhaustion. Guilt. Confusion. Fear. Leftover adrenaline choked his veins and left his body shaking.

Sound returned in a rush and he suddenly realized where he was—the Hogwarts lawn, right at the entrance to the maze. The crowd roared. Footsteps. Screams.

Hands latched onto his shoulders and Harry lashed out with all the terror and defensive fury of a cornered animal. He had no wand and only a small part of his mind kept him just reasonable enough to hide his wandless magic; one fist connected with something hard and he heard a crunch and a curse; he thrashed and shouted—

 _“Petrificus totalus,”_ someone said, and his limbs and body locked into place. The terror rose like a wave that threatened to crush him. Trapped. Immobilized. Vulnerable and at the mercy of those around him. Just like Dudley’s friends holding him down, like the cupboard door closing behind him—

“Potter,” someone said, _“Harry,”_ and that someone was Snape. His Head of House. Former Death Eater. “Calm yourself, Mr. Potter,” Snape ordered in that steel voice of his and Harry instinctively obeyed.

Very slowly, the fear slipped away. Harry could tell his mind was a disorganized mess but at least now he had a tenuous grip on himself.

Snape saw his return to rationality and waved his wand and just like that Harry could move again.

He sat up and looked around.

Dumbledore. It was Dumbledore he’d hit. Blood streaked the old man’s face and beard and hands; someone had already healed him but—

“You broke his nose,” Snape said softly.

Harry grinned.

Jules choked and came to life with a flail not unlike Harry’s, but at least he refrained from physically assaulting the headmaster. His wild eyes darted around, landing first on Harry with something very like relief, then going over Snape straight to Dumbledore. There were other people clustering around them now—Cornelius Fudge, with Percy Weasley and Spencer Wright and some hideous toad-faced woman at his back; McGonagall, white-faced and furious; Moody, glaring at everyone; Hagrid yelling incoherently; Flitwick wringing his hands.

“He’s back,” Jules said. “Voldemort’s back.”

Fudge choked. “What—You-Know-Who—the boy’s mad—raving—hospital wing—”

Dumbledore stood swiftly to his feet. In the moonlight, with blood on his face and a terrible expression, he was very suddenly nothing like the dotty old man and every inch the defeater of Grindelwald. Harry instinctively shrank back from him.

“Jules, Harry,” Dumbledore said intensely. “Stay here—”

He took off after Cornelius Fudge, robes flapping.

People got out of the headmaster’s way but they crowded in around Harry and Snape, Jules and Moody and McGonagall. The Gryffindor Head got to work with her wand, yelling, but the confused crowd overwhelmed her voice. Snape turned away, fighting people back—someone was crying very near him; people pressed in on all sides; Harry felt rather like he was drowning—there was nowhere he could turn that didn’t have someone crushing up to him—

“Potter. This way,” someone ordered.

There was a hand on his shoulder but in the direction it was pushing him, there were no people. Harry shoved back panic. Realized Jules was being guided the same direction—Jules, looking shell-shocked and blank and dim.

Harry would’ve done anything in that moment to get away from the crowd and the person at his back was guiding him in a direction that seemed to involve fewer people so he went willingly, easily. His Occlumency was in tatters. His mind a disaster. He kept seeing a body on the ground, kept feeling the knowledge that he’d created it slam into his mind over and over, like some part of him hoped that if he kept thinking about it he’d feel the kind of emotional reaction he _should_ be having.

Until he dealt with this, he wouldn’t be able to settle or organize his mind, so Harry focused on this new fact.

He’d _killed someone_. He was a _killer_. Harry examined the thought from all sides and prodded it and felt the shape of it and watched it settle in among the other things he knew to be true about himself, immutable, and waited for it to break him, but—it didn’t.

He couldn’t tell himself he hadn’t meant it. _Incremo_ was near-impossible to block and the countercurse was obscure and hard to cast and had to be done instantly. _Incremo_ was close to one hundred percent lethal. Harry had used it. And now Crabbe was dead. And Harry wished it hadn’t happened—wished he hadn’t had to do this—but he also knew he wouldn’t change a thing if killing Crabbe meant he and Jules got out alive.

Introspection occupied him so fully that by the time Harry had some kind of order restored to his head and some mockery of his usual mental shields in place, he was in the halls of Hogwarts, being guided along in the light of the torches.

Jules was mumbling the story. “Made a potion… got his body back…”

“The Dark Lord got his body back? He’s returned?”

“And then the Death Eaters came… and then we duelled…”

Harry knew that voice. Mad-Eye Moody. So why… why did Moody have them… this wasn’t the way to the hospital wing, but that wasn’t what felt oddest right now… something niggled at him, some fact that his brain seemed to think was Very Important, but he couldn’t figure out what…

“You duelled with the Dark Lord?”

“Got away… my wand… did something funny… spells came out of my wand…”

“In here, Jules… you too, Harry—in here and sit down… you’ll be all right now… drink this…”

A key scraped in a lock, passwords were muttered, a door opened. Harry found himself presented with a chair and sat down. Jules next to him.

Someone put a potion in his hand. Harry looked blankly at it, then at Moody, who was already at work forcing some down Jules’ unresponsive throat. He sniffed cautiously at the potion, probed it with his magic, identified it as a generic Invigorating Draught, and knocked it back.

The world swam into sharper focus. Harry inhaled rapidly and sat up straighter; he’d really needed that. He still needed to sit down and sort through his mind and restore balance but now he could push aside his emotions and memories and concentrate on what was happening now.

“Voldemort’s back, Jules? You’re sure he’s back? How did he do it?”

“He took stuff from his father’s grave, and Wormtail, and me,” Jules said. He looked a lot more clearheaded now.

“What did the Dark Lord take from you?” Moody said intently.

Harry realized what had been odd in the corridor. Moody had said _Dark Lord_ instead of You-Know-Who or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named or Voldemort.

“Blood,” said Jules, raising his arm. His sleeve was ripped where Wormtail’s dagger tore it.

Moody’s breath hissed out between his teeth. “And the Death Eaters? They returned?”

“Yes,” said Harry. “Loads of them…”

“And were they forgiven?” Moody said.

Harry frowned. Odd question. Really odd, actually.

Jules jerked, eyes blowing wide. “There’s a Death Eater at Hogwarts—I just remembered—there’s one here—they put our names in the Goblet, they made sure we got through to the end—”

He tried to get up, but Moody pushed him back down. Harry wished he’d kept Jules’ wand instead of putting it back in his brother’s robes. He was largely defenseless agains other wizards at the moment.

“I know who the Death Eater is,” Moody said quietly.

Harry stared at him. Pieces were falling into place. The picture wasn’t clear yet—but he could tell—he was onto something here—

“Karkaroff?” Jules said wildly. “Where is he? Have you got him? Is he locked up?”

“Karkaroff?” Moody said with a laugh. There it was again. The dissonance. Expression not matching facial muscles. Harry had a bad feeling that he’d been a blind idiot the whole year. The shape of a theory was taking place and he couldn’t see its details yet but it was a horrifying silhouette. “Karkaroff fled tonight, when he felt the Dark Mark burn upon his arm. He betrayed too many faithful supporters of the Dark Lord to wish to meet them… but I doubt he’ll get far. The Dark Lord has ways of tracking his enemies.”

“Karkaroff’s _gone?_ He ran away? But then—he didn’t put our names in the Goblet?”

“No,” Harry breathed. “No, Karkaroff’s the one the Dark Lord said ran away. Snape’s the one he thinks betrayed him… _you’re_ the faithful!” This was how Voldemort knew about Eriss—Moody’s eye had seen her—

“Not possible,” Jules said instantly. “He didn’t do that…” He turned to Moody. “You can’t have done…”

“Very clever, Harry,” Moody said. He wasn’t even bothering to try and mimic Moody’s expressions now; his entire smirk looked _completely_ wrong on his face. “Should’ve known it’d be you who sorted it out.”

And—Harry flinched—the accent was gone. His voice was still Moody’s in pitch and rasp but it was smoother somehow, cultured, a typical British accent instead of a Scottish brogue.

“Well, he’s not Moody,” Harry said icily. “Are you, _Professor?_ ”

Jules’ eyes widened. “He’s not… But… How?”

“They were true, then?” Fake Moody said. “The Death Eaters who went free? Those of us who escaped Azkaban?”

“Polyjuice,” Jules answered his own question.

Harry decided he had to keep the imposter talking until someone showed up or he got an opening. “Most of them. One—Macnair— _crucio_ ed to death.”

“Knew it,” Fake Moody said in disgust. “Macnair was the worst sort of scum… just like those treacherous, worthless bits of filth who were stupid and brave enough to cavort in masks at the World Cup but fled at the sight of the Dark Mark when I fired it into the sky.”

Harry’s eyes fixed on something behind Fake Moody and his stomach contracted in horror. His journal. Lying there on the desk.

Which meant—which meant—

Not that Fake Moody wanted to read his correspondence. It had only gone missing today. Harry wasn’t supposed to come back from the graveyard, and his friends would have the sense to block his journal if they noticed that it was indicating that Harry was reading their letters even though Harry was missing. No—Moody wanted…

To _communicate?_

“You fired… What are you talking about?” Jules said.

Harry hoped to Merlin Jules wouldn’t recognize the journal. He had to get his hands on it and tuck it away so he could figure out just what in the hell was going on here.

“Surely he told you, Jules,” Fake Moody said with a rictus grin. “That I alone remained faithful, that I alone was true and loyal…”

“You didn’t… it—it can’t be you…”

Harry had to be grateful for Jules’ stammering objections. His brother was clearly in too much shock to notice any of their surroundings and it was keeping Fake Moody talking.

“Who put your name in the Goblet of Fire, under the name of a different school? I did. Who frightened off every person I thought might try to hurt you or prevent you from winning the tournament? I did. Who nudged Hagrid to show you the dragons? I did. Who helped you see the only way you could beat the dragon? _I did_.”

Fake Moody kept his magical eye on the door and his good eye flicking between Jules and Harry.

“It hasn’t been easy, guiding you to through these tasks without arousing suspicion. I had to use every ounce of cunning I possess, though I am not a Slytherin, so that my hand would not be detectable in your success. Dumbledore would have been very suspicious if you have managed everything too easily. As long as you got into that maze, preferably with a decent head start—then, I knew, I would have a chance of getting rid of the other champions and leaving your way clear. But I also had to contend with your stupidity. The second task… that was what I was most afraid I would fail. I was keeping watch on you, Potter. I knew you hadn’t worked out the clue. I had to give you another hint.

“And you, Potter elder, were as much a problem in the opposite way—too clever by half, not inclined to trust me simply because I was Dumbledore’s man.” He laughed mockingly. “The opposite, if anything. I could tell you saw something off about me from the beginning. Luckily I didn’t have to help you so much. You weren’t the priority, and you were doing just fine on your own, so I stayed out of your way and let you befriend Krum, let you keep yourself alive…”

“You didn’t do all that,” Jules said hoarsely. “Cedric gave me the egg clue.”

“Who told Cedric to open it underwater? I did. I trusted that he would pass the information on to you. Decent people are so easy to manipulate, Julian.”

Harry had to agree with him even as his mind worked on overtime. This made no sense. The imposter was clearly a cunning one even if not a Slytherin—Ravenclaw, then, Harry’d lay money on it—far too clever to be sitting here monologuing if he didn’t have a purpose to it. So why…

“I was sure Cedric would want to repay you for telling him about the dragons, and so he did. But even then, Jules, even then you seemed likely to fail. I was watching all the time… All those hours in the library. Didn’t you realize that the book you needed was in your dormitory along? I planted it there early on. I gave it to the Longbottom boy. Don’t you remember? _Magical Water Plants of the Mediterranean._ It would have told you all you needed to know about gillyweed. I expected you to ask any- and everybody you could for help. Longbottom would’ve told you an instant. But you did not… You did not… You have a streak of pride and independence that could have ruined all.

“So what could I do? Feed you information from another innocent source. You told me at the Yule Ball a house-elf called Dobby give you a Christmas present. I called the elf to the staff room to collect some robes for cleaning. I staged a loud conversation with Professor McGonagall about the hostages who’d been taken, and whether Jules Potter would think to use gillyweed. And your little elf friend ran straight to Snape’s office and then hurried to find you…”

Over Fake Moody’s shoulder, Harry could see foggy shapes moving in the Foe-Glass. He narrowed his eyes: they were getting closer, slightly.

“You, Hadrian, came back promptly, but Jules, you were so long in that lake, I thought you’d drowned. Then Dumbledore took your idiocy for nobility and marked you high for it. I breathed again: I still had a chance to send the Dark Lord his preferred prize.

“You each had an easier time in the maze than you should have, of course,” he added. “I was patrolling around it, able to see through the outer hedges, able to curse many obstacles out of your way. I Stunned Delacour as she passed. I put the Imperius Curse on Krum, so he’d finish Diggory and leave your path clear. It was only when I realized that Julian was on track to run into the Sphinx, with which I could not aid him, that I changed focus to Hadrian—and found him well on his way to the Cup. I knew you’d do well when I saw you Stun Diggory,” he said, raising an eyebrow Harry’s direction.

“So glad you approve,” Harry said drily.

Jules glanced incredulously at him.

“It was the smart play,” Harry said, eyes on Fake Moody. “Kept Diggory out of my way without injuring him. And who knows? If he’d latched onto that Cup with us he’d probably be dead now.”

“You—you—but you helped him against Krum!” Jules shouted.

“Yes, because he was under the _Cruciatus_ , unjustifiably,” Harry said. “If Viktor had Stunned him and moved on, I’d have commended him for the tactic.” He knew exactly how cold that sounded, and didn’t give a shit. They had bigger problems to deal with than Jules’ moral high horse.

“The Dark Lord didn’t manage to kill you tonight, and he _so_ wanted to,” Fake Moody said, both eyes fixed on Jules. The figures in the Foe-Glass were getting clearer but he wasn’t paying the slightest bit of attention to it. “Imagine how he will reward me when I bring you to him. I will be honored beyond all other Death Eaters. I am already as a son to him…”

Harry frowned. _That_ made no sense at _all_. Voldemort was a psychopathic madman—technically sociopathic by the stories; sociopaths were the reckless impulsive type—then again, neither the diary shade nor the man he’d met tonight seemed particularly impulsive—so maybe the stories were off. Distorted somehow by time and fear.

How much had no one told him?

“The Dark Lord and I have much in common,” Fake Moody said, spinning his wand. “Both of us had very disappointing fathers. Both of us suffered the burden of being named for those fathers and reclaiming their names to make them our own. Both of us had the pleasure of killing our fathers to ensure the continued rise of the Dark Order!”

“You’re mad!” Jules burst out. “You’re _mad!”_

Fake Moody smiled viciously. “Oh, I am far from it, Potter.”

He checked his pocket watch, nodded slightly, and pulled a simple, polished black stone out of one pocket. Held it in one hand. Reached out for Jules with the other.

Portkey. It was a Portkey. Once he got hold of Jules they’d be gone—

Harry threw himself into Jules’ chair and sent them both sprawling over the floor.

There was a blinding flash of red light, and with a great splintering crash, the door of Moody’s office burst open.—

Fake Moody flew backwards.

Harry looked up. Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Snape looked back at him in the Foe-Glass. He turned around as the three of them advanced into the room, Dumbledore in front, cold fury and power radiating from him in waves. Jules shrank back from his mentor.

Dumbledore kicked Fake Moody over onto his back so his face was visible. Snape and McGonagall went straight for their students, helping them to their feet.

“Come along, Potter,” McGonagall whispered. The thin line of her mouth was twitching as though she was about to cry. “Come along… hospital wing…”

Snape only leveraged Harry to his feet and stepped back in silence.

“No,” said Dumbledore sharply.

“Dumbledore—he ought to—look at him—he’s been through enough tonight…”

“He will stay, Minerva, because he needs to understand,” said Dumbledore curtly. “Understanding is the first step to acceptance, and only with acceptance can there be recovery. He needs to know who has put him through the ordeal he suffered tonight, and why.”

“Polyjuice,” Jules said.

Dumbledore looked up at that. “You realized?”

“Yeah.” Jules swallowed. “Who is he really?”

“This is not Alastor Moody,” Dumbledore said quietly. “You have never known Alastor Moody. The real Moody would never have removed you from my sight after what happened. The moment he took you, I knew, and followed.”

He bent over Fake Moody’s limp form and put a hand inside his robes, fishing out the infamous hip flask and a ring of keys. “Severus, please fetch me the strongest Truth Potion you possess, and then go down to the kitchens and bring up the house-elf called Winky.”

“Professor,” Harry said, “I don’t know if it makes a difference but—Winky is in the process of being adopted by Hermione Granger.” 

McGonagall gave a great start. “She _is?_ Has the girl—has she been tested—does she understand—”

“She’s been tested,” Harry reassured her. “And she’s devoured Hogwarts’ entire body of literature on house-elves plus some borrowed from friends.”

“I suppose—that is how Miss Granger operates—Albus, should I…”

“Yes, bring the girl,” Dumbledore said with an irritated wave. “If she’s the elf’s intended witch, then we must…”

Snape swept out of the room.

McGonagall, Harry, and Jules clustered together as Dumbledore began trying the keys in the lock of Moody’s trunk. Harry raised his eyebrows as each key opened it to a different compartment. It was surely the real Moody’s trunk and the fake was using it to keep up appearances, because it wasn’t honestly that secure and Fake Moody seemed too smart for this. Unless there were other wards Dumbledore had bypassed without Harry noticing.

The seventh key produced a sort of underground room, and lying on the floor ten feet below, apparently fast asleep, thin and gaunt, lay Mad-Eye Moody. His wooden leg was gone, his eye socket was empty, and chunks of his grizzled, uncut hair were missing.

Dumbledore levitated him out of the trunk and gently onto the ground. “He’s freezing,” he said. “Jules, pass me the imposter’s cloak—he’s been stunned, and controlled by the Imperius. Very weak. Of course, they’d have needed him alive.”

Harry nodded. “Polyjuice only works if you take the hair or fingernails from a living person… The hip flask?”

Dumbledore turned it over and a thick, glutinous potion splashed out over the floor. “You see the simplicity of it, and the brilliance. The real Moody never _does_ drink except from his hip flask, he’s well known for it. The imposter needed, of course, to keep the real Moody close by, so that he could continue making the potion. The imposter has been cutting his hair off all year, see where it is uneven? But I think, in the excitement of tonight, our fake Moody may have forgotten to take it as frequently as he should have done… on the hour… every hour… We shall see.”

Dumbledore sat down and began to watch Moody unblinkingly. Harry and Jules looked at each other. Jules shrugged and boosted himself up on a table to wait. Harry copied him. McGonagall pointed her wand and levitated the unconscious real Moody up and out of the room, presumably heading for the hospital wing.

Then, before their eyes, the face of the man on the floor began to change. Scars smoothed over into unblemished skin. The mangled nose regrew and shrank. His mane of grizzled hair withdrew into his scalp and turned the golden color of straw or wheat. The wooden leg fell away with a _clunk_ as a new leg regrew beneath it; the magical eyeball popped out of place and Dumbledore snatched it up.

He was no longer Fake Moody. He was a young man, younger than Sirius—although Sirius had aged in appearance more than he should have thanks to Azkaban—pale and freckled with a head of blond hair.

Jules gasped.

There were hurried footsteps in the corridor. Snape returned with McGonagall, Winky, Hermione, and—oddly—Theo on his heels.

Snape stopped dead in the doorway. “Crouch!” he exclaimed. “Barty Crouch!”

McGonagall pushed him out of the way and stared in shock. “Good heavens!”

Winky peered around Hermione’s legs. She shrieked and began to shake. Hermione promptly knelt and began to comfort the elf, who seemed torn between her soon-to-be-mistress and her old master’s son.

Harry realized as Theo sidled over to him that this was the secret about Crouch that Winky had been trying to protect.

“Severus? The potion?”

Snape handed Dumbledore a small glass bottle of clear liquid. Harry recognized it. Veritaserum, colorless, tasteless, odorless, the most powerful truth potion known to wizardkind, a recent invention that had made its creator exceedingly wealthy. Dumbledore got up, pulled Crouch into a sitting position, forced his mouth open, poured three drops of the potion onto his tongue, and said _“Renervate.”_

Crouch opened his eyes. His face was slack and eyes unfocused.

“Can you hear me?” Dumbledore asked quietly.

The man’s eyelids flickered. “Yes,” he said.

“I would like you to tell us,” said Dumbledore softly, “how you came to be here. How did you escape from Azkaban?”

Harry resolved to embark on a study of Veritaserum and potential antidotes over the summer. It took a skilled Occlumens to block it and seeing Crouch like this—he _never_ wanted to be so vulnerable and helpless.

“My mother saved me. She persuaded my father to rescue me as a last favor to her. He loved her as he had never loved me. He agreed. They came to visit me. They gave me a draught of Polyjuice Potion containing one of my mother’s hairs. She took a draught of the potion containing one of my hairs. We took on each other’s appearance.”

Winky trembled harder. “Say no more, Master Barty…”

“They’re not your masters anymore,” Hermione said soothingly. “It’s okay, Winky… they can’t hurt you, their orders don’t bind you…”

Winky sobbed and buried her face in Hermione’s robes.

Crouch took a deep breath and continued in the same flat voice. “The dementors are blind.  They sensed one healthy, one dying person entering Azkaban. They sensed one healthy, one dying person leaving it. My father smuggled me out disguised as my mother in case any prisoners were watching through their doors. My mother died a short while afterward in Azkaban. She was careful to drink potion until the end. She was cremated under my name and bearing my appearance. Everyone believed her to be me.”

“And what did your father do with you when he had got you home?” Dumbledore said.

“Staged my mother's death. A quiet, private funeral. That urn is empty. The house-elf nursed me back to health. Then I had to be concealed. I had to be controlled. My father had to use a number of spells to subdue me. When I had recovered my strength I thought only a finding the Dark Lord… of returning to his service.”

“How did your father subdue you?”

“The Imperius Curse,” Crouch said. “I was under my father’s control. I was forced to wear an Invisibility Cloak day and night. I was always with the house-elf. She was my keeper and caretaker. She pitied me. She persuaded my father to give me occasional treats. Rewards for my good behavior.”

“Master Barty,” Winky sobbed. “You isn’t ought to tell them, you is getting in trouble…”

“He can’t help it,” Hermione whispered, “he’s been drugged…”

She was glaring daggers at Dumbledore. Harry knew she considered Veritaserum up there with Love Potions as immoral and wrong to use without consent; even in trials it was illegal to force Veritaserum down someone’s throat.

“Did anyone ever discover you were still alive?” said Dumbledore. Harry already knew this one. “Did anyone know except your father and the house-elf?”

“Yes,” said Crouch, eyelids flickering. His mouth worked, but he said no more. He seemed to be fighting the Veritaserum.

“Who?” Dumbledore demanded. “And how?”

 “A witch in my father’s office. Bertha Jorkins. She came to the house with papers for my father’s signature. He was not at home. Winky showed her inside and returned to the kitchen, to me. Bertha Jorkins heard Winky talking to me. She came to investigate. She heard enough to guess who was hiding under the Invisibility Cloak. My father arrived home. She confronted him. He put a very powerful Memory Charm on her to make her forget what she found out. Too powerful. He said it damaged her memory permanently.”

“Tell me about the Quidditch World Cup,” said Dumbledore.

“Winky talked my father into it,” said Crouch. “She spent months persuading him. I had not left the house for years. I had loved Quidditch. Let him go, she said. He will be in his Invisibility Cloak. He can watch. Let him smell fresh air for once. She said my mother would’ve wanted it. She told my father that my mother had died to give me freedom. She had not saved me for a life of imprisonment. He agreed in the end.

“It was carefully planned. My father led me and Winky up to the top box early in the day. Winky was to say that she was saving a seat for my father and a guest. I was to sit there, invisible. When everyone left the box, we would emerge. Winky would appear to be alone. Nobody would ever know.

“But Winky didn’t know that I was growing stronger. I was starting to fight my father’s Imperius Curse. There were times when I was almost myself again. There were brief periods when I seemed outside his control. It happened there, in the Top Box. It was like waking from a deep sleep. I found myself out in public, in the middle of the match, and I saw, in front of me, a wand sticking out of a boy’s pocket. I had not been allowed a wand since before Azkaban. I stole it. Winky didn’t know. Winky is frightened of heights. She had her face hidden.” He stopped talking; again his jaw worked but no sound came out. He shifted a little in the ropes.

Winky moaned.

“So you took the wand,” Dumbledore said, “and then what happened? What did you do and why?”

 _Questions getting more specific,_ Harry noted.  

“…we went back to the tent,” said Crouch. “Then we heard them. We heard—the false Death Eaters. I knew they had turned their backs on him. That they were mocking… his legacy and his objectives with their foolish parading and posturing. That… they were doing the opposite of what he would have wanted.”

Dumbledore shot unhappy looks at Harry and Jules, Hermione and Theo. Clearly, he wouldn’t have wanted them to hear that… which meant there might be something to it. Harry supposed it’d be an idiot who thought parading around dangling innocents in the air was a good way to gain sympathy from wizards and witches in Britain, and Voldemort did not seem like an idiot.

“They were merely making _sport_ of Muggles. The sound of their voices woke me. My mind was clearer than it had been in years. I was angry. I had the wand. I wanted to attack them for their foolishness and disloyalty. My father left the tent: he had gone to free the Muggles. Winky was afraid to see me so angry. She used her own brand of magic to bind me to her. She pulled me from the tent, pulled me into the forest, away from the Death Eaters. I tried to hold her back. I wanted to return to the campsite. I wanted to show those Death Eaters what loyalty to the Dark Lord meant and punish them for their lack of it. I used the stolen wand to cast the Dark Mark into the sky.”

He fell silent.

“How did you escape the Ministry?” Dumbledore said. “What happened to Winky?”

“Ministry wizards arrived. They shot Stunning Spells everywhere. One of the spells came through the trees where Winky and I stood. The bond connecting us was broken. We were Stunned.

“When Winky was discovered, my father knew I must be nearby. He felt me lying in the bushes and waited until the other Ministry people left the forest. He put me back under the Imperius Curse and took me home. He dismissed Winky. She had failed him. She had let me acquire a wand. She had almost let me escape.”

Winky let out a wail of despair.

“Then what?” Dumbledore said. “If your father took you home, how did you come to be impersonating Alastor Moody?”

“It was just Father and I, alone in the house. And then…” Crouch’s head rolled on his neck, a slow smile curling his lips. “The Dark Lord came for me.

“He arrived at our house late one night in the amrs of his servant Wormtail. My master had found out I was still alive. He captured Bertha Jorkins in Albania. He tortured her. She told him—about the Triwizard Tournament. She told him about Alastor Moody going to teach at Hogwarts. He used Legilimency and broke through the Memory Charm my father placed on her. She told him I had escaped from Azkaban. She told him my father kept me imprisoned to prevent me from seeking the Dark Lord. And so my Lord knew his surrogate son had not forsaken him. Had not died in Azkaban like he thought. He conceived a plan. He arrived at our house near midnight. My father opened the door.”

His smile was larger now. Harry could practically feel the man’s gleeful vindication. Crouch had been imprisoned by his father for a long time.

Almost as long as Harry had been, really.

He wondered what kind of mental damage it would do to be under the Imperius that long. Probably a lot.

“It was very quick. My father was placed under the Imperius Curse. Now _he_ was the one imprisoned, controlled. The Dark Lord forced him to go about his business as usual, to act as though nothing was wrong. And I was released. I awoke. The Dark Lord entered my mind and used Legilimency, used what he knows of mind healing, to repair some of the trauma left from years under the Imperius.”

That answered that question, then. Crouch had seemed far too sane.

Harry’s eyes caught on the journal again. Everyone was too spellbound to notice it—Theo was focused almost hungrily on Crouch—but he had to snag that before they went through Crouch’s things. He knocked his foot against Theo’s under cover of their robes and, when Theo blinked at him, Harry flicked his eyes over toward the journal.

Theo sneaked a glance in the same direction, and nodded minutely.

“And then what did Lord Voldemort ask you to do?” said Dumbledore.

“He needed someone to infiltrate Hogwarts. To guide the Potter twins through the Triwizard Tournament without seeming to do so. To turn the Cup into a Portkey. But first—”

“You needed Alastor Moody,” Dumbledore said. His voice was calm but his eyes were blazing.

“Pettigrew and I did it. I brewed Polyjuice. We journeyed to his house. Moody put up a struggle. There was a commotion. We managed to subdue him just in time. Forced him into a compartment of his own trunk. Took some hair and added it to the potion. I drank it; I became his double. I took his leg and eye. I was ready to face Arthur Weasley when he came to hand out a political favor and sort out the Muggle neighbors. I made the dustbins move about the yard. I told Weasley I heard intruders, who set off the dustbins. I packed Moody’s trunk and set off for Hogwarts. I kept him alive, under the Imperius Curse. I questioned him about his past and his habits so I could fool even Dumbledore. I spent time with him as a teenager when he and my father worked together. I could imitate him easily. I stole ingredients for the Polyjuice from the dungeons. It was easy. When Snape found me in his office, I said I was under orders to search it.”

“And what became of Pettigrew after you attacked Moody?”

“He returned to care for the Dark Lord, in my master’s house, and keep watch over my father.”

“But your father escaped. How? Did you kill him?”

“After a while he began to fight the curse as I had done. There were periods when he knew what was happening. The Dark Lord decided it was no longer safe for my father to leave the house. He forced him to send letters to the Ministry. He made him write and say he was ill. But Pettigrew has never been the best with power-heavy spells like the Imperius. His control slipped. My father escaped. The Dark Lord guessed he was heading for Hogwarts. He was going to tell Dumbledore everything, to confess.

“My Lord sent word of my father’s escape. He told me to stop him at all costs. So I waited and watched. Jules Potter ran into me in the entrance hall. Told me that Barty Crouch had appeared down by the forest. I pulled on an Invisibility Cloak and went down to meet him. I had to beat Dumbledore. I was near the end of my Polyjuice; I let it wear off and ran on my own normal legs. I Stunned Harry Potter. I killed my father.”

 _“Noooo!”_ wailed Winky. “Master Barty, what is you saying?”

“You killed your father,” Dumbledore said. “What about the body?”

“Carried it into the forest.” Each word was halting. Stilted. Hard-won. “Covered it with the Cloak. Ran partway back up to the castle. Drank more Polyjuice. Pretended to be stumping along toward the forest when Snape and Dumbledore and Jules Potter caught up to me. We searched the forest. When the search was done, I—transfigured my father’s body into—buried it while wearing the Invisibility Cloak—in the acromantula territory...”

“And tonight?” Dumbledore said.

“I offered to carry the Cup into the maze before dinner. I turned it into a Portkey. My Lord’s plan worked. I… I…”

He blinked, and his expression sharpened somewhat. He squinted up at Dumbledore, then around the room. The light blue eyes hovered on Harry for a second before skipping over and fastening on Jules.

“The Veritaserum has worn off,” Snape said flatly. “Would you like to administer more?”

“No,” Dumbledore said, looking down at Crouch with disgust. “No, I think we’ve learned all we can from him…”

He waved his wand and ropes unwound from the tip, binding Crouch as tightly as an acromantula would its dinner.

“I believe it is time our champions went to the hospital wing,” Dumbledore said. “Madam Pomfrey will surely wish to look them over—”

The door banged open for a second time.

Fudge walked in, and on his heels—

Spencer Wright.

Percy Weasley.

A dementor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (was anyone not expecting a cliffhanger?)


	22. Drawing Lines

Cold and despair bore down on Harry’s weakened mental shields.

He seized Theo’s wand almost reflexively. _“Expecto patronum!”_

Two voices rang out in unison, his and Jules’. The wand resisted him, but Harry was so desperate he forced the spell to work, and it felt half as powerful as usual but his wolf formed on the ground next to Jules’ stag and both animals lunged at the dementor even as it surged for the prone body of Barty Crouch Jr.

“Stop that!” Fudge bellowed—

Dumbledore drew himself up with a terrible expression. “How dare you bring that thing into my school!” he bellowed—McGonagall was yelling also, advancing on Fudge and Percy with a furious expression and hair flying—Hermione and Winky pressed themselves against the far wall—

Harry was pretty sure only himself and maybe Theo saw Wright point his wand and murmur a spell—

The ropes binding Barty Crouch vanished completely.

Harry’s grip on Theo’s wand tightened—but he didn’t move.

Didn’t react as Crouch snatched for Moody’s wand.

 _“Stop him!”_ Wright screamed, and fired off a Stunner that missed by two feet—

Crouch leaped through the window just as Dumbledore turned—

 _“No!”_ Jules yelled, and his stag disappeared as he ran for the window.

McGonagall caught him and hauled him back as the dementor flew straight for the open space, and shot away after Crouch.

Everyone was shouting.

Theo snatched his wand back. Cast a spell. The journal shot into his hand, unnoticed in the chaos. He and Harry and Hermione were the only people not yelling as Theo tucked the journal into his bag; he and Harry locked eyes for a second and that said all they needed.

“What—how—Barty Crouch!” Fudge gasped out. “Still alive—thought Weasley overheard wrong—but—who—Dumbledore!”

“Barty Crouch Senior broke his son out of Azkaban at his wife’s request years ago,” Dumbledore said furiously. His wrath seemed to be sucking all the air out of the room; Harry blinked hard and fought it. “He is responsible for the deaths of his father and Bertha Jorkins.”

“Well—then—I certainly should have brought a dementor for protection!” Fudge shouted. “I’ve every right, when entering a potentially dangerous situation—”

“You don’t bring it into a _school!”_ McGonagall shrieked. “There are _children_ here!”

“But now he cannot give testimony, Cornelius,” said Dumbledore. “If that dementor catches him, he shall be lost. If it fails, he shall escape. Either way, he cannot give evidence about why he killed those people.”

“Why he killed them? Well, that’s no mystery, is it?” blustered Fudge. “He was a raving lunatic! From what I understand, he seems to have thjought he was doing it all on You-Know-Who’s orders!”

“Lord Voldemort _was_ giving him instructions, Cornelius,” Dumbledore said. “Those people’s deaths were the byproducts of a plan to restore Voldemort to full strength.”

“And it worked,” Jules said loudly. “He’s got his body back—and his Death Eaters—I saw them!”

Fudge looked as though someone had just struck him in the face with something heavy. Dazed and blinking, he goggled first at Dumbledore, then Harry, then Jules, and finally Dumbledore again.

“You-Know-Who… returned? Preposterous. Come now, Dumbledore… the lad’s clearly had a traumatic experience… the mind does strange things… tries to explain away…”

“I’m not unstable!” Jules yelled, looking very unstable.

“We all heard him confess,” Snape said though tight lips. “Under the influence of Veritaserum.”

“He told us how he’d been smuggled out of Azkaban and how Voldemort—learning of his continued existence from Bertha Jorkins—went to free him from his father and used him to capture the boys tonight.”

“See here, Dumbledore,” Fudge said, and Harry was disgusted to see a slight smile on his face, “you—you can’t seriously believe that. You-Know-Who—back? Come now… certainly, Crouch may have _believed_ himself to be acting upon You-Know-Who’s orders—but Azkaban does strange things to the mind, you can’t take the word of a lunatic like that…”

“Let us hear the boys’ story, then,” Dumbledore said angrily.

All eyes turned on Harry and Jules.

Harry let his brother run the show.

Jules started with the acromantula, and then them racing for the Cup. Dumbledore gave Harry a disappointed look that rolled off him like water off a duck’s back at that point; Harry cared little if Dumbledore was disappointed in him. Jules went on about their appearance in the graveyard and the cauldron and being tied to the tombstone. He paused, and Harry shrugged and said nothing much happened and that Jules woke up almost instantly, and then Jules picked up the narrative thread, talking about the Dark Lord’s monologues, and then his use of Legilimency, torturing Macnair to death…

He hesitated when he got to Voldemort’s first attempt to kill him. “He… I don’t know how the ropes came off, but…”

“Accidental magic,” Harry said. “I’m… it was me. I think. I can’t… control it, sometimes.”

“Right,” Jules said. “Thanks for that.”

Harry shrugged. “Couldn’t watch my brother die…”

Jules shot him a quick, tight grin, and went on. “So then we fought them. Harry held off some of them—Voldemort went straight for me—I mostly dodged tombstones and tried not to die.”

“No way could a fourteen-year-old _hold them off_ ,” Percy scoffed.

“I didn’t,” Harry said, “not for long.”

“They had him disarmed and immobilized right about the time Voldemort’s wand locked onto mine,” said Jules.

“Priori Incantatem?” McGonagall said sharply.

Dumbledore looked shaken. “Indeed… The wand cores of Harry, Jules, and Voldemort’s wands are all phoenix feathers from the same bird. Brother wands, all of them.”

Harry thought of his holly wand, held hostage by a Death Eater.

Jules frowned. “Sorry, what’s…”

“When brother wands are forced to duel, a very rare effect can take place. It can be replicated with a simple spell on a much more basic level, but the full _priori incantatem_ effect is… remarkable. One of the wands will force the other to regurgitate the spells it has performed—in reverse.”

“Mine,” Jules said. “My wand—I saw all the spells I used in the duel, and then some from the maze… and then Harry told me to break the connection. So I did. Then I passed out.”

“I Summoned Jules, set off a fire surrounding us, and then summoned the Cup. It Portkeyed us back.”

He very carefully focused his earnest, open expression on Fudge and not on Dumbledore. And he lied with every cell in his body.

An odd smile lingered on Fudge’s face. Harry didn’t like it. The Minister looked both boys over, turned back to Dumbledore, and said, “You are—er—prepared to take their word on this, are you, Dumbledore?”

There was a moment’s silence.

“Certainly, I believe Jules,” said Dumbledore. His eyes were blazing. Harry noticed that Dumbledore didn’t mention him. “I heard Crouch’s confession. I have now heard the boys’ story of what happened after they touched the Cup. The two stories line up perfectly, they make sense, they explain everything that has happened since Bertha Jorkins disappeared last summer.”

Fudge glanced at them before answering. “You are prepared to believe that Lord Voldemort has returned, on the word of a psychotic murderer, and two boys who… well…”

Harry understood in a flash. He rounded his shoulders and let his body cave in on itself, flicking frightened eyes at Jules and Dumbledore, and let himself tremble a bit. The picture of a traumatized victim, a teenager shell-shocked from the aftermath of a tournament far above his skill level.

In short, everything Fudge expected to see.

Harry ran back over the conversation in his head. He hadn’t made any claims about Voldemort. He was known to be on bad terms with Dumbledore. Fudge was gearing up to go after Jules, and Harry wasn’t going to stop him.

He couldn’t.

Behind Fudge, Wright noticed, and gave Harry an almost unnoticeable look of approval.

“You’ve been reading Rita Skeeter, haven’t you, Mr. Fudge,” Jules said angrily.

Fudge reddened slightly, but a defiant and obstinate look came over his face. “And if I have?” he said, looking at Dumbledore. “If I’ve found out you’re keeping certain facts very quiet? One a Parselmouth, eh? And the other having funny turns all over the place—”

“I assume you are referring to the pains Jules has been experiencing in his scar?” Dumbledore said coolly.

“You admit he’s been having these pains, then?” said Fudge quickly. “Headaches? Nightmares? Possibly—hallucinations?”

“Listen to me, Cornelius,” said Dumbledore, and again he seemed to radiate power. He stepped forward. Fudge stepped back but looked no less stubborn. “Jules is as sane as you or I. That scar upon his forehead has not addled his brains. I believe it hurts him when Lord Voldemort is close by, or feeling particularly angry.”

“You’ll forgive me, Dumbledore, but I’ve never heard of a curse scar acting as an alarm bell before…”

“Look, we saw him come back!” Jules shouted, trying to step forward. Theo and McGonagall held him back, Theo with a sort of resigned irritation on his face. “I saw the Death Eaters! I heard Lucius Malfoy’s voice—Nott’s—Crabbe and Goyle—Macnair—”

“You are repeating the names of those who were acquitted of being Death Eaters thirteen years ago!” Fudge said angrily. “Good old families—donations to excellent causes—you could have found those names in old reports of the trials! For heaven’s sake, Dumbledore—the boy was full of some crackpot story at the end of last year too—his tales are getting taller, and you’re still swallowing them—”

McGonagall started shouting. Harry tuned them all out. Fudge was a weak-willed idiot. No wonder Malfoy had been able to lead him around by the nose for so long. He was refusing to accept the prospect of disruption to his comfortable and ordered world.

When Fudge ignored Snape’s now-black Dark Mark as some kind of fluke, Harry was reluctantly awed by the man’s capacity for intellectual dishonesty. He also noticed when James stormed into the room yelling about his son (singular). Harry pulled a pillow over his face at that point and meditated.

Someone prodded his leg. Harry pulled the pillow away and started paying attention to the sound entering his ears again. “I’m going,” Theo hissed.

Harry nodded. Theo slipped out in the wake of Fudge and his entourage.

Dumbledore pressed his fingers to his temples. “The Weasleys,” he said. “The Boneses, the Macmillans—James, I’ll need you to send owls to all of them—to Remus—be discreet, if Fudge thinks I am interfering at the Ministry—”

Personally, Harry thought asking James Potter for discretion was a step in a very wrong direction, but no one in charge besides Snape seemed to agree. “Only once I’ve seen my son to the hospital wing and _someone tells me what is going on!”_ James bellowed.

“Minerva,” Dumbledore said. “I would like to see Hagrid in my office as soon as possible. Madame Maxime as well, if she will consent to come.”

“Headmaster, I must insist upon taking my student to the hospital wing before things progress further,” Snape said silkily.

Dumbledore waved a hand. “Yes, yes, go along… Once you’ve gotten him settled, I… you know what I must ask you to do. If you are ready… if you are prepared…”

“I am,” said Snape. He’d gone pale and his black eyes glittered strangely. Harry would lay money that he was being asked to return to the Dark Lord and spy.

“Then good luck,” said Dumbledore and he watched with apprehension as Snape hustled Harry from the room.

James pulled Jules along right behind them, and Hermione followed, Winky still shaking at her feet. “I’ve got to take her back to the kitchens,” Hermione said anxiously, “make sure she’s settled and okay, but—Harry, I’ll be up shortly to see you…”

“I’m okay,” Harry said, and tried to smile reassuringly. Either he was more tired than he thought or Hermione was getting better at reading him because she gave him a look that said she was having none of it and led Winky off towards the dungeons.

Snape and James and Harry and Jules walked to the hospital wing in stiff, awkward silence. Harry’s exhaustion was catching up to him. Words buzzed like insects around his ears as Snape told Pomfrey to give them potions and Harry was led to a bed. He changed mechanically into pajamas a house-elf brought up for him from his dorm and crawled into a bed, sniffed halfheartedly at a potion to check it was indeed Dreamless Sleep, and happily passed out while Jules told James their story.

 

Pomfrey released him the next morning.

Harry muttered a goodbye to Jules and slipped down to Slytherin territory. Eriss was waiting for him, half out of her mind with worry. He comforted her and took comfort in her presence, in the cool dark heavy silence of the dungeons, in the knowledge that he could slip away to the Chamber at any time if things got really bad, in the faint sounds of water from the lake and the wariness of his House mates.

Slytherins understood when to pry and when to give someone a wide berth. Slytherins saw the look on his face and steered clear. Slytherins spent years having petty four-spell duels over nothing that meant by now they all knew all to avoid being on the wrong end of Harry’s wand.

And if whispers ran around the school that Harry’s wand was lost in the Tournament, if Jules seemed to think Harry had never got his back, Harry just shrugged and twirled the ash wand around his fingers in a practiced motion. Obviously those rumors were lies, because it wasn’t like he’d had a chance to go get a new wand, so of _course_ the one in his holster was the same one he’d had all along.

Only his friends heard the truth.

At first Harry spoke only to Theo, Pansy, Blaise, and Daphne, and then the day after his release from the hospital, he roused himself from the dungeons and stalked up to the Knights Room. The others were waiting for him. Hermione threw herself at him instantly: Jules had been telling his story to anyone in Gryffindor who would listen, and she refused to believe half of it until Harry corroborated but she knew enough to guess it was bad. He tolerated her hug like he’d tolerated Pansy’s and Daphne’s and Neville’s and then he sat down and spoke in a monotone voice.

He told them everything.

Shocked gasps echoed around the room. Luna hummed and Fred and George turned so pale their freckles stood out like ink on their skin when Harry finally spilled his secret wandless magic to the group. Hermione, predictably, demanded a demonstration. Harry coated the entire room in ice and then snapped his fingers and flash melted it with fire that raced over the walls and finished the story while the clouds of steam dissipated. He showed them the ash wand, too, and told them about it calling to him in the Potter vaults on his first day in Diagon Alley, and found the energy to make a joke about how he was sure glad he’d been practicing with it off and on over the years, because now he’d have to use it like it had been his only wand all along.

Two days after he left the hospital—three days after the final task—the _Prophet_ reported that Barty Crouch Jr. had escaped from Azkaban with the help of his parents, was on the run, and was wanted for the murders of Bertha Jorkins, and Barty Crouch Sr. A body had been found in a Muggle graveyard—Walden Macnair.

The day after that, Harry picked up the paper and read the official Ministry story in full: Crouch, driven mad by his stint in Azkaban, used Imperius and bribery and threats to get Macnair to cooperate. He impersonated Alastor Moody and sent the Potter twins to his accomplices, outside Dumbledore’s reach. Julian Potter collapsed. Hadrian Potter fought back and saved both of their lives and killed Macnair in the process. The other co-conspirators were unknown and on the run. The death had already been ruled self-defense and the charges of murder dismissed. Harry kept his chin high and his face impassive under the whispers and stares of the entire Great Hall.

He found it morbidly ironic that he was legally being blamed for the murder that _hadn’t_ happened at his hands that night.

Crabbe’s death was reported as an afterthought as the result of drinking a bad potion. In the sensationalism of Julian Potter almost dying at the hands of an Azkaban escapee, no one gave it a second thought.

“I detect Wright’s hand in this,” Hestia said. She and Adrian and Everett and Miles sat with the fourth years that morning. “Keeping you—somewhat protected.”

“They’re going to go after my brother,” Harry said. It wasn’t a hard play to predict. The Ministry had to discredit him in order to keep up this lie. “I’ll have to thank Wright for keeping me out of it.”

Everett was the only one brave (or stupid) enough to ask. “Is this just a frame job? Or did you really…”

Harry hadn’t bothered to keep a damper on his eye color for days now. He looked Everett full in the face, held his gaze until the older boy was squirming and uncomfortable, and dropped his attention back to his food without a word.

After that, Slytherin got the message: if you had to ask, you didn’t get to know.

Slytherin House became a minefield of silent glances and wordless communication. People dodged around all the things they couldn’t say. Almost everyone knew Voldemort was really back, either through their families or their friends. Everyone who knew was also aware of who _didn’t_ know, and those who didn’t know for sure were clever enough to guess, and steer clear of such topics with everyone but their trusted friends.

Harry watched the first years closely. Veronica Butler was close friends now with Graham Pritchard, Malcolm Baddock, and Liam Eirian; he saw how defensive the three boys were, how she staunchly went about her days like nothing was wrong, and nodded approval when she caught his eye across the common room. Sirius already had three rooms ready in Grimmauld Place; Harry sent Butler a letter one day and didn’t look at her while she opened an invitation to live with him over the summer if she felt like she needed to for safety. Hermione Granger would be there as well, he assured her, since Hermione had already accepted his invitation to spend the summer with him and Sirius, and it would be entirely within the bounds of propriety. Her response came the next morning, a carefully written expression of gratitude and an open-ended statement that she _might_ come later in the summer but couldn’t decide now.

The other Houses glared at them with more suspicion than ever. Harry, for once, avoided the worst of it; he’d saved his brother’s life and whether people believed he’d saved it from Voldemort or a couple of Imperiused nut jobs didn’t matter. No, this time, it was those with known or suspected Death Eater families who got hissed at, spat at, glared at.

Theo. Pansy. Daphne. Malfoy. Hestia and Flora. Cassiopeia Warrington. Celesta Fawley. Natalie. Evalyn. Alex.

People Harry counted as friends, people Harry liked and even, to some extent, trusted, people who had helped him in the past. He saw how their eyes got flat and empty under the barrage of taunts, how their shoulders stiffened and their spines straightened and their bitterness hardened with every epithet and insult and suspicious glare.

Jules finally confronted him four full days after they came back from the maze.

_JP_

_Harry, can we talk_

_HP_

_Yes, where and when?_

_Don’t ambush me._

_JP_

_I wouldn’t!_

_The classroom 2 down from Flitwick’s with the bird skeleton in the window. 3pm_

_HP_

_I’ll be there_

“We need to talk,” Jules said the second Harry walked in.

“Hello to you too, little brother,” Harry said, landing a quick _colloportus_ on the door. He’d had three snakes watching the room since Jules proposed this little tête-à-tête and none of them detected anything like an ambush being planned. He still wasn’t taking chances. “I’m doing fine, thanks for asking. No permanent damage from the spells I took in the duel aside from some pulled muscles in my calf. You?”

“Great,” Jules said, rolling his eyes. “Just dandy. Everyone seems to think I’m an unstable nut job and my brother is some kind of budding Dark lord and Voldemort’s back and probably going to try to kill me again within a year, how d’you bloody think I’m doing?”

Harry swallowed several comments in the vein of _oh dearie me, it’s so hard to be Jules Potter_. His brother’s life was far from gilded and rosy and it wouldn’t be… one hundred percent fair to call him out like that even if he _was_ spoiled. “Term’s almost over. Everyone can go home and… cool down.”

“Yeah,” Jules said. “Cool down. I, um—Dad said it’s okay for you to come over this summer,” he said. “Not with Sirius but—on your own. You can meet some of my friends and—and spend more time with them… I bet if you get to know them you’ll get along better.”

“Are you really asking me to get along with Seamus Finnegan and Ernie Macmillan?” Harry said. “Not to _mention_ Ronald.”

Jules shifted his feet. “I mean… I know it wouldn’t be easy.”

“I have friends, Jules,” Harry said. He had an inkling of where this was going and the suspicion sat in his stomach like curdling milk. “I’m not some stray puppy you need to pick up and adopt.”

“Your friends are all… Death Eaters,” Jules said. “Or their kids, or sympathizers… You’re not—you can’t still want to hang out with them.”

“Actually, I can,” Harry said. “And I do. And I will. That’s the beauty of technically being Sirius’ ward, Jules. James can’t control me.”

“But—I heard Nott there!” Jules looked flabbergasted. Like he legitimately could not understand that Harry wasn’t about to drop his best friends like slimy knuts just because of what their families did. Theo was loyal to him. Pansy and Daphne were loyal. They were his best friends, and they’d never pulled any kind of kill-all-the-Muggle-borns shit, and they’d never betrayed him. They had become his family when Jules and James rejected him, before he had Sirius, so _no_ , this was not going to go how Jules wanted it to.

Not that he was capable of understanding that.

“We are not our parents,” Harry said. “Case in point: me.”

Jules glowered. “That’s different.”

Harry rubbed his forehead. “I’m pretty damn sure it’s not, but just to be clear—you’re telling me I should walk away from some of my closest friends, people who have befriended Muggle-borns and had my back and done nothing to indicate they’re going to pursue careers in murder working for a genocidal psychopath with a superiority complex, because you think you recognized some of their parents’ voices in the graveyard?”

“You heard them too!” Jules yelled.

“I didn’t recognize any voices,” Harry lied. “First Dumbledore kept me isolated from the wizarding world for three summers and then last year I had Sirius to… work out how to live with. I haven’t exactly spent much time around them. I wouldn’t recognize their voices under masks in a stressful situation.”

Jules took a deep breath. “Okay. That’s… fair. I’m—please just come back to…. the family you’re supposed to have.”

“Does that include Sirius?” Harry said.

Jules hesitated.

“Didn’t think so,” Harry said with a grim smile.

“Harry,” Jules said urgently. “Seriously—you need to—things are changing. Just do the right thing.”

There were a lot of ways Harry could answer that. He could tell Jules that their definitions of _right_ were not the same. He could point out that Harry wasn’t much for morals anyway. He could go off on another little tirade about in what world was it _right_ to turn on his friends just like _that_. He could ask where Jules’ authority over Harry’s life came from.

But he could tell that none of those things was going to make a difference. Harry looked at Jules and they were only a few feet apart but it felt like a chasm too wide and deep to cross even with a Firebolt.

“I am,” he said.

 

That evening, Harry picked up the journal with shaking hands.

He had not checked the new page. Theo’d given it back to him with a loaded gaze. Harry had used it to write Jules and his friends but there was another bronze-edged one-way connection tucked behind Jules'. 

 

 

Harry slowly peeled it apart from the one labeled _Jules Potter_ and laid the journal flat across his bed and looked at the name.

 _Barty Crouch_ , it said.

 _Your enemy_ , it said.

 _An opportunity_ , it said.

He took a deep breath and ran a hand over Eriss to comfort himself and looked down at the slanted, angular handwriting that covered the page.

 

_Potter,_

_This is quite an ingenious little network of books you’ve got. I do apologize for going through your things. I got a bit curious about the journals you and your friends are always carrying around, and I meant to just leave a letter tucked in it for you to find—but I’m a Ravenclaw, as you probably know, and once I noticed the rune work on this thing I couldn’t not examine it. Very, very clever. I assume this was the work of yourself, Miss Granger, Mr. Nott, and possibly Miss Greengrass and Mr. Finch-Fletchley._

_I’ve linked a notebook of my own to this one, rather crudely, since I was short on time. I can’t read anything else you or your friends write to one another and I know full well you’ll go over every inch of the spells you put on here to double-check that._

_Instead of the letter I wrote beforehand, I can now just write this all out and know you’ll read it when and if you ever open your journal. (I’m really hoping you don’t just burn it.)_

_You’re a Slytherin and I’m sure you would enjoy clever wordmongering, but to save time, I’ll cut to the chase. The Dark Lord is interested in you. Frankly, so am I. You think for yourself, Potter, and that’s rare enough in general, especially rare from your family. Essentially, feel free to ask me questions. I will answer them honestly or if it’s something I can’t or won’t answer I’ll tell you that. No lies. You won’t believe me, but I hope you’ll take advantage of the opportunity and at least consider what I have to say._

_Dumbledore has spent the last thirteen years flooding our world with propaganda. Look up the death tolls, Potter. Look up the attacks and the actual casualties and the survivor interviews of the last war. Look beyond the Prophet’s sensationalism and come to your own conclusions if you have to. Don’t just swallow his lines._

_-Barty Crouch_

_Oh, and if you would—tell Sirius I’m sorry I couldn’t save Regulus. It’s a story I’m not at liberty to share at this moment, but I’ve waited a long time to say those words._

“What’s it say?”

Harry didn’t look up at Theo, just turned the book around so he and Blaise and Pansy and Daphne could read the letter.

“You going to write back?” Blaise said.

It was Theo Harry watched. Theo whose coldness and intensity Harry catalogued as he responded. “I’m going to research what he said, and then I’m going to consider it, at least.”

“The Dark Lord knows about your wandless magic now,” Theo said quietly. “You’re the reason you and Jules made it back. He’s going to be… intrigued.”

They all knew how Theo knew this. Blaise watched them both; whether he liked it or not his mother’s skill set was ingrained in him and he would be seeing all the nuances of this tricky conversation as clearly as Harry.

“Seems like a dangerous position,” Harry said. “To have his interest.”

“You’d be surprised,” Theo said. “Barty Crouch caught his interest years ago.”

“Your father tried to protect me,” Harry said. Pansy looked sharply at Theo. “Did he tell you that?”

Theo’s face was unreadable. “He did.”

“Voldemort tried to kill my brother,” Harry said, because someone needed to say it.

Daphne carefully sat next to him. Harry looked down and laced his fingers with hers. His every movement was being tracked by everyone in the room, which fortunately was just his four Slytherin friends; Malfoy and Crabbe and Goyle were off doing Merlin knew what.

“You killed Crabbe’s father,” Theo pointed out.

Harry didn’t bother to arrange his face into regret or remorse or grief or guilt. He wasn’t guilty, and he didn’t regret it, and he wasn’t going to try to hide either of those things from these people.

Pansy crossed her arms and looked fiercely around at all of them. “Next year is going to be different.”

“Everything’s going to be different,” Blaise said. “I’m sticking with the people I trust.”

His eyes were on Harry as he said it.

Harry looked around—Blaise, whose greatest fear was not trusting the people around him; Theo, who was terrified of being bound to someone else’s strings; Pansy, who delighted in talking circles around people; Daphne, as vicious as she was intolerant of fools. And he thought of Hermione. Justin. Neville.

His people.

“Hermione,” he said. “Justin.”

“They’re safe,” Theo said. “When it comes down to the wire they’ve got magic and they’ve embraced what that means, embraced their heritage for the gift it is. Blood matters. Ability matters more.”

Harry felt his lips twist as he suddenly realized where that phrase came from, and why it always seemed to have some loaded connotations when Slytherins passed it around the common room. He wondered if Veronica Butler had caught on yet. “Not quite what I’d have expected from… his crowd,” he said.

“Propaganda,” Daphne said, very softly. She tapped the journal, which was still open to Crouch’s letter. “The Dark Lord is not insane enough to believe wholesale genocide could form the basis of a tenable political movement.”

Well. Harry could do what Crouch said and think for himself, at least. It was what he’d always done. No one got to control him, no one got to make him think or feel a certain way—that was one of the pillars of Occlumency. He could draw his own conclusions if nothing else.

He’d have to have some careful conversations. He could get Neville and Justin on board with the thinking-for-themselves angle. Luna… honestly, he could not tell what Luna thought about most things, but he could at least have Neville feel her out. Fred and George were anarchists to begin with; convincing them of anything was more a matter of justifying it and they wouldn’t bother worrying about whether it was _allowed_ to think that. Hermione might be a little trickier; he could only hope she’d given her blind faith in authority as good a kick in the teeth as she promised she would after second year. This would be the first big test.

 

The next morning, Harry made a point of sitting between Theo and Malfoy, neither of whom missed the gesture. He met Jules’ eyes across the Great Hall. Jules glared at him. Harry scribbled a note on a bit of parchment and tapped it with his ash wand and sent it flying across the room in the form of an origami crow. Jules unfolded it with a scowl that turned to a pensive frown when he read the note.

_We are not our fathers._

 

The Leaving Feast was the most somber Harry had ever seen it. People kept staring at Harry and Jules. Also glaring at the Slytherins. Harry watched the real Moody, who was ten times twitchier than Crouch in a Moody suit had ever been, and Snape, who looked even colder and sourer than usual.

And then, at the end of the feast, Dumbledore stood up and told them all that Voldemort was back. That the Ministry was lying and it was Jules Potter who had fought him off, Jules Potter who was threatened in the Triwizard Tournament. He left Harry as a footnote. Supporting cast.

Nearly the entire school stood and raised their goblets to Jules in salute when Dumbledore told them to. Harry clenched his fists very tightly under the table and stayed squarely in his seat along with the entirety of Slytherin House and some of the Ravenclaws.

 _Battle lines_ , he thought. But not battle lines of people who were for the Death Eaters. It was battle lines being drawn of people who were against Dumbledore. Harry refused to believe it was one side or the other in this disaster. He wasn’t going to kiss Dumbledore’s hems just because the man defeated Grindelwald once upon a time.

Not after everything else he’d done.

“Next year is going to be interesting,” Malfoy said.

“No kidding,” Pansy muttered.

Slytherins traded glances telling each other to stay quiet, be discreet, keep your heads down, keep your hand close to your chest. Harry was pleased to see Ginny sitting with Evalyn and Natalie and Alex and Finn and Aria like usual. Veronica Butler, happily integrated with the first years. Romilda Vane, halfblood, as close to Astoria Greengrass as ever.

 

_Daphne_

The Slytherins scarfed down their breakfast the last morning of term and vacated the Great Hall as soon as possible. Daphne was not alone in hating the other students for their glares and hate and suspicion, though she refrained from joining the complaints and irritated mutterings around the common room. Complaining didn’t fix things. Unfortunately, in this circumstance, her first instinct—to send everyone who looked at her askance to Pomfrey in a bucket—wouldn’t fix anything either.

She hated them with a cold hard certainty that sat in her stomach with all the weight of a glacier. She hated them for their knee-jerk prejudice. She hated them for their blind faith in the lines they’d been fed for over a decade. She hated them for their sheeplike tendency to do as they were told to do and think as they were told to think and look at _her_ like _she_ was the awful one.

Harry was colder these days. Harder. She supposed killing someone would do that to a person. Daphne tried to be there for him, because that’s what a girlfriend or a friend would do, but she just— _comfort_ was not in her skill set. Her own emotions were barely comprehensible to her most days, let alone someone else’s, and Harry was just so damn unreadable. So Daphne had just paid attention and kept from talking his ear off—that at least worked well, she didn’t like talking much—and wondered, privately, where things had gone wrong between them.

She was starting to think they worked better as friends than as a couple.

And for her preoccupation with _that_ , Daphne kind of hated herself.

So she kicked those thoughts in the teeth when they stuck their heads out of her subconscious—which was infuriatingly often—and concentrated on the big picture, which was a hell of a lot bigger than her teenage melodrama.

The Dark Lord was back. Slytherins were metaphorically and literally under fire all over school. Harry Potter was in a very uncomfortable position amid all the chaos.

Daphne’d stand by him. Dating or not. She knew _that_ like she knew her own name. Theo, too, and Blaise, and Hermione and Justin and Neville and Pansy and maybe even Luna at this point, but who knew because that girl was either batshit insane or the most brilliant person Daphne had ever met, and either way she was impossible to predict. They were all tied together by friendship and memories and all those ties ran right through Harry.

The whole group had opted to leave the castle early and walk to Hogsmeade instead of taking the carriages so they could spend a little more time together, and they were some of the last to board the train. Daphne sat where she could see Harry and watched him. Theo and Blaise and Neville drew him into a game of Exploding Snap, and he was smiling and joking. She couldn’t tell if he was as okay as he seemed.

“He’ll be fine,” Pansy murmured.

Daphne scowled at her. All three of them were sprawled on the floor of the compartment with pillows dredged out of Pansy’s trunk, and that made it hard to scowl properly, because Pansy wasn’t even fully facing her.

“You’re not quite transparent, Daphne dear, but you’re also not especially hard to read,” Pansy said with a smirk.

“Am I wrong to be worried?” Daphne muttered.

Hermione whacked her with one of the fashion magazines they were passing around. Hermione had some Muggle publications that Daphne fully intended to pass on to Natalie and Astoria so they could comb through them for ideas. “He’ll tell us if he needs our help.”

“No, he won’t,” Daphne said. “Neville might. Blaise might. Theo and Harry are on par with rocks when it comes to expressing genuine emotion.”

“Or glaciers,” Pansy said with a smirk. “If nothing else, Weasley or the Other Potter is sure to piss him off this summer, and he’ll blow up, and that’ll help.”

Hermione’s eyes flicked from the boys to Luna, breathing steam on the window and then drawing spirals in it, and Justin, reading a Muggle magazine titled something about finances, and then finally back to Pansy and Daphne.

This was as good a time as any, Daphne supposed. “Hermione,” she said. “I wrote my mum and dad a few days ago.”

“And?” Hermione said, looking wary.

“If you accept, they would be willing to foster you at Greengrass Manor this summer, and over the holidays next year,” Daphne said. She had to put in effort to keep from rushing her way through the sentence, to maintain her usual composure.

Hermione’s eyes blew wide. Even Pansy reacted slightly, turning her full attention away from the magazine in her lap and up to Daphne. She’d know the full ramifications of that offer. Hermione probably didn’t, not completely. It hadn’t been in the cultural crash course Mum gave her the summer after second year, because fosterage was a system that had fallen out of favor with the 1803 law that banned blood adoptions.

Still, Hermione was clever enough to have an inkling.

“A Muggle-born,” she said flatly. “Your parents, the Greengrasses, a Sacred Twenty-Eight family, are willing to foster a Muggle-born.”

“You’re my friend.” And by Circe, Daphne had never expected to say that about Hermione Granger of all people, but damn if it wasn’t true. “It’s not uncommon for wizarding children to spend extended periods of time at one another’s houses. It would be different than you living with Harry and Sirius—more acceptable, for one thing, because there’s not a single woman in that household. And you’d have access to our library.”

Hermione narrowed her clever brown eyes. “I’m perfectly capable of seeing the benefits, thanks. Am I wrong in assuming this is a political statement for your family?”

Daphne shrugged. “It would help accusations of prejudice. But that’s not why they offered.”

“Why’d they offer, then?” Hermione pushed.

“Because I asked,” Daphne said.

“That’s not enough.”

Pansy leaned forward intensely. “Hermione. _Fosterage_. Not having a friend over. You’d be as a surrogate daughter to the Greengrasses. It’s protection for their daughter’s friend they’re offering, and essentially, they’d be your unofficial guardians and advocates in the wizarding world.”

Hermione had gone quite pale by the time Pansy was finished. Daphne shot Pansy a look of gratitude. She hadn’t wanted to spell it out.

“Not a blood adoption,” Hermione said.

Pansy’s smile was all teeth. “Those are illegal, didn’t you know?”

“Fosterage is basically blood adoption without the ritual,” Daphne said quietly. Hermione _had_ to understand what was being offered here. It meant the Greengrasses would support her as they would a full-blooded member of the family. It meant they would consider an insult to Hermione as an insult to House Greengrass. It meant she had fully stepped into the magical world regardless of politics or blood.

“Why me?”

“You’re my friend,” Daphne said, and because she knew that wouldn’t be enough, she told the full truth instead of just part. “Also you’re the brightest witch of our age. What family wouldn’t want you attached to them?”

“The Malfoys,” Hermione said instantly.

_You’d be surprised._

“Well, if it’s any comfort, my parents and Draco’s don’t get along,” Daphne said.

Hermione frowned. “I’ll… think about it. Is there an expiration date on the offer?”

“Don’t take longer than a month.”

Daphne really, really hoped Hermione accepted the offer.

They went back to flipping through the magazines. Daphne made note of a few pages to ask her mum about, with dresses or shoes in colors she liked. Hermione told them she’d declined Viktor’s invitation to visit him in Bulgaria because there was too much going on at home; the look on her face told them not to pry any more than that.

“When should we tell them?” Hermione said finally.

Daphne smirked. “Now works…”

Hermione grinned and sat up. “I have a surprise for everyone,” she said.

 _“We_ ,” Daphne added, leaning back against one side of the compartment.

Harry raised an eyebrow at her. Daphne rather abruptly wished they were alone.

“Do tell,” Theo said, grinning.

Hermione grinned. “So I’m sure you all remember Rita Skeeter attacking me and then Harry.”

“Vividly,” Justin said, just as Neville said “Yep.”

“Well… I did a bit of research—and Daphne and I figured out how she’s been eavesdropping all over the grounds.”

Daphne nodded very slightly at Harry, confirming his guess. He raised _both_ eyebrows.

Hermione whipped a sealed glass jar out of her bag.

Draco slammed into the compartment.

“Quite an entrance,” Blaise drawled. “Where’s the muscle?”

Draco scowled and sat down next to Justin. “Crabbe and Goyle and Bulstrode are playing cards a bit down the train. Why are you waving a beetle in a jar at me?”

Hermione and Daphne looked at Harry.

He cocked his head and examined Draco for a few seconds until the blond was slightly uncomfortable, to Daphne’s secret delight. She’d disliked him since he spilled tea on her white ballet flats at a garden party when they were six and no one was better at making people squirm than Harry.

“Go ahead,” Harry said.

“Rita Skeeter,” Hermione said, grinning even wider. “She’s an unregistered Animagus.”

There was a moment of shocked silence.

“She’s _what?”_ Justin said.

“That’s very difficult,” Luna said. “I’m surprised she managed the transformation. She never seemed very clever.”

The beetle buzzed angrily around the jar.

“We caught her on the windowsill in the hospital wing,” Daphne said, grinning evilly at the beetle in the jar. Revenge was delightful. “She’s been buzzing around all year.”

“Viktor pulled a beetle from my hair at the end of the second task,” Hermione said. “There was an insect on the open windowsill in Divination the day Jules passed out. Jules and Ronald said one flew into Jules’ hair the night he overheard Hagrid and Maxime talking about Hagrid being a half-giant in the gardens. Theo, when you and Harry and I saw Lavender talking into her hand—she was passing Skeeter information on me and Harry! Probably Jules, too, Parvati was pissed at him for a while and Lavender follows her lead…”

“Brilliant,” Theo breathed.

Hermione tapped the glass.

“Has she got... food in there?” Neville said uncertainly.

“I’ve been tossing her fruit,” Hermione said unconcernedly. “I looked up what species she is and that works. There’s an Unbreakable Charm on the glass so even if she transformed, she’d squash herself.”

The beetle buzzed even more angrily around the jar.

“Shouldn’t have messed with my friends, bitch,” Daphne said to it.

“You’re going to let her out,” Justin said. “Right?”

“Eventually,” Daphne said.

Hermione shrugged. “I’ll let her stew for a month or so, and then let her out on condition of her keeping her quill to herself, or I’ll out her to the Ministry.”

“We’ve been a terrible influence on you,” Blaise said solemnly.

Harry smiled, and it was the first time since the third task that Daphne could say for sure it was a sincere one. “I like it.”

“Good, because I’m not letting her out quite yet,” Hermione said. She looked at Draco. “Chess?”  

“Happily.” Malfoy whipped out a board and Hermione a set of chess pieces. Daphne caught Harry’s eye and both of them hurriedly turned their attention back to Theo and Blaise’s bickering before their smirks gave them away.

Hermione lost narrowly in the chess game. Draco and Justin somehow got into a conversation about economics that left the rest of them in the proverbial dust. Daphne tried to relax and enjoy the company of her friends and live a little longer in the illusion of being a teenager who didn’t have to worry about politics and wars and her public image and her family image and the Slytherin image.

 

_Harry_

He’d just managed to settle in and adjust to Malfoy’s presence, which threw their group dynamic off a bit, when the compartment slammed open _yet again_.

Harry looked up with an irritated snarl already forming on his face that only got colder when he saw who’d interrupted them.

Toby Pritchard. Libby Borage. Ben Creed. Marietta Edgecombe. Lucretia Howe. All fifth and sixth years. All Slytherin haters.

“Oh, look, it’s all the junior Death Eaters in one place,” Howe said with a bright laugh that did not match her mean grin.

“Not quite,” Borage pointed out. That one had a nasty streak, especially for a badger. “There’s still Travers and Rowle and Nielsen… the Weasley girl if she doesn’t come to her senses.”

Harry didn’t move, but judging by the way Theo shifted away from him on the bench, and how Neville and Blaise on the bench across from him leaned back, they were all picking up on his mood. “I’d say it’s a pleasure to see you all, but I’d be lying,” he said. “Pritchard… Creed… Howe… it looks like you didn’t learn your lesson at the start of term, did you?”

“Like we’re scared of you,” Pritchard said with a laugh. There was discomfort underneath it.

Pansy snorted from the floor.

Hermione glared at them. “You’re cowards and bullies, here to pick on fourth years because Harry got the drop on you in September and you need to stroke your egos.”

“Leave,” Harry said with a lazy smile. “It’s starting to smell like idiocy in here.”

Almost in unison, their visitors drew their wands. Theo gave up trying to be subtle and scooted a whole six inches away from Harry. “You fucking traitor,” Ben Creed said angrily. “A Potter—you could’ve been a Gryffindor or at least walked away from this lot, but _no_ —just as bad as the Weasley girl…”

“Granger,” Borage said. “Longbottom. Justin. You shouldn’t be in here… Justin, you’re talking to _Draco Malfoy._ ”

“Oh, is that his name?” Justin said politely. “I somehow managed to go this entire time without realizing… I remembered to introduce myself, right, Draco?”

“You did,” Malfoy said with surprise lingering on his face. “Justin.”

“No one’s going to worry about Luna in a compartment full of supposed Death Eaters, then, are you?” Neville said quietly.

Creed looked at Edgecombe. “She’s one of yours, right?”

Edgecombe sniffed. “Unfortunately. Loony Lovegood.”

Neville looked them over with quiet disappointment. “Yeah, I’m fine where I am, thanks.”

“They’re using you,” Howe said. “You can’t trust snakes. You really think they’re actually friends with you, Granger? Probably just trying to copy your essays—”

_“Enough.”_

Howe kept moving her mouth, but a flick of his wand was all it took to silence her. Harry leaned forward slightly and spun his wand around his fingers. “I believe I asked you to leave,” he said softly.

“Go,” Theo added.

Daphne and Blaise and Hermione all had wands out now, too. “Go before we have to ask less politely,” Daphne added with a sneer. Blaise and Theo were shooting uncomfortable glances at Harry. They knew him best. Knew to be worried about what he might do.

Harry saw the resolution forming on the older students’ faces. They weren’t going to leave.

Best strike first, then.

He glanced sideways at his friends, caught a few eyes, tilted his head minutely towards their guests.

 _“Amplius nasi!_ ” he said. _“Invesicae—”_

A burst of spellfire shot through the compartment in the same instant. All five of the upper years collapsed under the barrage, Creed shrieking as a battery of smells overwhelmed his pathetic little undisciplined brain. They really should consider teaching the Sense-Amplifying Charms in Defense.

Fred and George popped up, grinning, in the open doorway. “Thought we’d see what they were up to,” George said.

“Watched Angelina, Alicia, and the Carrow twins take this lot down a few hours back,” Fred said.

George kicked Pritchard in the stomach. The Gryffindor fifth year had boils covering his body and wet marks spreading down his pants; he let off a moan and curled into a ball. “They were going after some Slytherin first years. Seemed to be under the impression that that Butler girl was about to get murdered.”

“They told me I was getting used for my essays,” Hermione said with a sniff. “As if I’d _let_ any of you copy my essays…”

Justin rolled his eyes. “Idiots.”

Harry rubbed his forehead. “Who used Jelly-Legs?”

“That’d be me,” George said.

“Looks like it didn’t mix well with _dunecortex_ ,” Blaise said, looking at Borage like she was something he’d found stuck to the bottom of his shoe. “Her skin’s all jellyish…”

“Creed has _scales_ ,” Theo said delightedly.

“Can we get them out of here?” Hermione complained. “They’re rather disgusting to look at.”

Harry, Theo, Neville, Fred, and George levitated the somewhat-conscious stupid visitors out into the hall. Harry, smirking, hung them from the ceiling with Permanent Sticking Charms on their robes and put temporary Sticking Charms on their wands to hold all five wands up against the wall, just out of reach should any of them wake up. Theo added a quick jinx for each that would cause any word they spoke to come out as gibberish for the next few hours. Neville frowned but didn’t say anything about this bit of payback. They retreated to the compartment, twins in tow, and went back to playing Exploding Snap.

Borage, Creed, Edgecombe, Pritchard, and Howe were still hanging there when the train stopped at King’s Cross and they gathered their trunks. Harry smirked up at them as he passed. “Have a nice summer,” Pansy said in a saccharine voice, to laughter from Daphne, Theo, Luna, and Malfoy.

They spewed angry gibberish that only made Harry’s friends laugh harder.

 He was struck by sudden inspiration on the platform. “Fred, George—hold up,” he called.

They waited, curious.

Harry dug a small bottomless bag out of the grey pack slung over his shoulder. It held seven thousand galleons, his portion of the Triwizard winnings plus enough to rent a place on Diagon and invest in enough materials to stock it. “A start-up loan,” he said. “Don’t even think about refusing. I’ve seen enough of your ideas this year; you’ll be ready to go from inventing to selling soon.”

The twins’ faces broke out into identical grins. “Wicked,” Fred said.

“Can’t wait to tell Gin,” George added. “And Lee.”

“See you!” they yelled over their shoulders, already dashing away.

“They’re a mess,” Pansy complained.

Theo grinned. “But a _useful_ mess. Imagine how much easier payback will be with their products…”

Harry looked around at his friends and he _knew_ none of them was really preoccupied with pranks and grades and Quidditch pickup games. Eriss tightened her grip across his shoulders and arms and he pressed his cheek lightly to her back in response as he got in line for the Floo that would take him home to Grimmauld Place.

The journal burned a hole in the bottom of his bag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that--fourth year is over!  
> Sort of can't believe we're here already. as always, huge thanks to Sear, for her invaluable feedback and enthusiasm as my beta, and thanks to everyone who reads and comments and leaves kudos.
> 
> I'm going back through book 5 at the moment and making some changes, and then I'll return to working on book 6. I'm not quite sure at this time when book 5 will start posting but expect around the end of August. When it goes up, I'll update Notifications just to make sure. 
> 
> a quick note about the "blood matters, ability matters more" thing, because i've seen that cropping up in comments on the last few chapters that I haven't had time to answer--that phrase's true meaning is that wizards value family and bloodlines but at the end of the day what matters is whether you have magic or not. Harry is a Potter, and a halfblood, and a descendant of the Gaunts, and all that matters--but he's a wizard. Hermione and Justin are Muggle-borns but they're a witch and wizard; Hermione is a powerful witch and Justin's about average but the key there is that they see themselves, and act, as a witch and a wizard, not as Muggles who can do magic. That's now the phrase *should* be used. there are also people who would take it and twist it to mean Muggleborns and halfbloods should be accepted but aren't as good as purebloods. that's not how Harry means it, nor is it how any of his immediate friends mean it. There are other characters who mean something else by it, which will come up in time when it's relevant.


End file.
